In Bloom
by wreckofherheart
Summary: [Sequel to Scarlet Cross; Peggy/Angie] Peggy bites the bullet, and fights for something she should have fought for long ago.
1. 01

**author's note** : Important: You must read **Scarlet Cross** , before starting this, otherwise you won't have a clue what's happening.

Well, hello there.

I couldn't wait much longer, and had to get back to this series. I have no idea how the first chapter will be received, but expect a speedy update. Thank you for reading, and do leave feedback. I very much appreciate response from you lovely readers.

The story starts just where we left off.

Enjoy!

* * *

In Bloom  
 **1.**

* * *

No more than two days pass, and their mission is nearly over. Boots splattered with dirt, battledress wet from the rain, heavy on their backs; a pathetic shield for their aching limbs. Her rifle clutched in one hand, she looks to her companion. They only have each for company, and have spoken very little. Yet, somehow, they manage to work as a team.

They dash across the field, camouflaged in the dark. As far as stealth is concerned, both agents are brilliant at it. They haven't been spotted, and, as should be expected, no kills have been made in their travels. The camp they intend to infiltrate is ahead of them. Wisely, they stop, go over their plan again. Neither pray, neither hope––they just _do_. Her companion stands first, gradually proceeds closer and closer towards the camp.

Peggy waits until Dottie is near enough. Immediately, she's running, too fast to be spotted. Claiming her binoculars, she checks that one of the Japanese soldiers is still maintaining his usual patrol. From where she is, she _can_ shoot him dead, but Peggy wants to avoid that. She needs to get in without shedding blood. And she has done this plenty of times; this is nothing new to her.

Except, all of those other times, she wasn't alone with Dorothy Underwood.

 _Go_.

She moves, rifle bouncing against her back as her feet trudge through the dirt.

The Japanese soldier hears a noise. Retrieves his weapon.

Peggy knocks him out cold from behind. She will have to trust Dottie from hereon. Now, it's all up to her. Peggy manoeuvres out of sight. Carefully, she peers around the corner of one of the small shelters, and identifies a group of soldiers talking a few metres ahead. Not too far from where they stand is Howard's invention. Whether or not she'll be able to reach the building is something Peggy isn't entirely sure of.

And she's usually sure.

To her relief, the soldiers separate.

One of them heads in her direction.

Peggy takes a step back, waits for him to come into view.

Her heel smacks into his mouth, and he falls back. She speedily hides him out of sight, and wastes no time in venturing further. It is slow, but thorough work. Peggy crouches, peers around the corner. Two men. Peggy can try and take them down. _Try_. However, it is a huge risk.

One of the soldiers groans quietly, and Peggy looks back just in time to see Dottie perform the most elegant form of martial arts she's witnessed. Peggy swallows, makes sure the coast is clear, and joins to meet her companion. Dottie's eyes glimmer in the moonlight. Peggy watches her as Dottie hurries on.

That was not basic SSR training.

That was something else.

And Peggy is certain that she is helping Dottie, not Dottie helping Peggy.

Their efforts prove worthwhile. Unfortunately, the building they want to enter is guarded, but it's nothing for Peggy and apparently Dottie. Dottie gestures that she will go on ahead first. Peggy can follow. Peggy doesn't object, but she's not willing to let Dottie reach Howard's invention without her.

She's so fast.

Dottie fights as if in a dance.

The soldiers don't even know she's there before it's too late.

Peggy charges forward and slams the heel of her rifle into a soldier's temple. Dottie has already entered without her. Peggy is fast, though, and she does not like to be beaten. This is a race, and she hopes her hunch about Dottie is incorrect.

A Japanese soldier yells out at them.

Dottie grins. 'Show time.'

Peggy is horrified they have been caught, but doesn't stand around. She dodges a bullet, runs over and trips the soldier up. She doesn't have time to deal with him. Another soldier yanks her back, mutters something in Japanese. Peggy knocks her head back, hitting him square in the face. Before she can wind him, Dottie passes the two––it's as if she flew, so graceful, so smoothly––and breaks his neck.

Then the two women are a blur in a crowd of soldiers. From the corner of her eye, Peggy sees Dottie jump into the air, land on an officer's shoulders, and turn his neck at an ugly angle. Peggy slides out of the way. Her knee lands in a soldier's crotch, her hand smacks another in the cheek, her hand grasps a soldier's arm, and she kicks him in the chest––hard. He exclaims, collapses, and she's instantly onto her next opponent, then two, then three at once, and it's all limbs and blood and bones crushing together.

The battle ends abruptly.

A pistol is pressed to a survivor's forehead. He glares up at the women.

Peggy's Japanese is clear. She demands to know where Mister Howard Stark's weapon has been stored, and that this delightful gentleman must take her to it. Right now. Dottie smiles crookedly, more than eager to finish this soldier off, but she remains put, eyes on Peggy. She does not blink.

Reluctantly, the soldier escorts them to the correct room.

Peggy looks left and right in case anyone else is after them. Dottie grabs the soldier by his hair, and whams him into the wall. There is a disturbing _crack_ as his skull shatters. Peggy stares at the damage, uncertain what to feel. She looks up at Dottie, who is smiling at her now, excited and deranged.

'I do love working with you, Peggy,' she whispers.

'The fun has only started, my dear.'

Peggy opens the door.

And there it is.

Howard's damned weapon.

A tiny thing. Encased in a wooden box, handcrafted by the inventor himself. Peggy doesn't know the exact details of the weapon, but, currently, she has no interest. Dottie waits at the door, allowing Peggy to enter and take the box. Peggy exhales, relieved and proud of their work. She slips off the rifle, leaning it against the wall. They will be able to return to New York, they will hand back the weapon, and then Peggy can return to Angie and––

 _Angie_.

The very thought of her makes Peggy feels nauseous, so Peggy forces her mind to think about the weapon instead. She needs to get out, she needs to be safe, she needs to _survive_. Peggy carefully lifts the box into her gloved hands.

'Good work, Underwood,' she says.

And the door slams shut.

Peggy turns.

Dottie peels off her left glove, and then her right, flinging them over her shoulder.

'Yes, Peggy Carter. Very good work. I couldn't have done this without you.'

Peggy presses the box to her chest. 'What _are_ you talking about?'

'Oh, don't act so silly, Peggy. You're not silly at all. You know exactly what I'm talking about.' Dottie smiles. She always smiles, her beautiful face so disturbing and eyes filled with hunger and thrill. 'Now, let's make this easier for the two of us, okay? Hand me over the weapon, and I'll let you go.'

'You'll have to try harder than that, agent.'

Dottie laughs. It's musical. 'I knew you'd be a challenge, and I _love_ challenges.'

'Clearly you are not an agent of the SSR. Are you willing to tell me _who_ you work for? Or do I have to guess?'

'Aw, but if I told you, Pegs, it would spoil all the fun.'

'You have a very sick idea of fun.'

'Oh? You've just realised, my sweetheart?' Dottie smiles. 'She'll miss you, Pegs. She'll miss you a _lot_ when I'm finished with you, but I'll make sure she pulls through. I'm _very_ good company. Your friend, Howard, would agree with me. Tell me, how do you think your Angela will feel once I tell her you died in the hands of your enemy?'

Peggy hates her.

It is the most irrational and heated emotion she has ever endured.

She should have known.

Oh, Peggy, you _fool_. She should have known Dottie was a traitor, that she had an ulterior motive. There was always something about her which Peggy didn't like, but she never knew what or why.

But the way she talks about Howard. _The way she talks about Angie_.

'Just like your dear Captain.'

Peggy steps back. She lowers the box back onto the table, eyes on Dottie constantly while the blonde comes closer and closer. Her feet light on the floor, body upright, head held high, confident, gorgeous, and so very dangerous.

'Or, maybe I'll finish her off too. At least, then, you'll be with the people you love most.'

Peggy kicks her waist. Dottie slaps her boot away, lunges at her, her fist almost reaching Peggy's face, but Peggy grabs her wrists, twists them at a painful angle. She tries to flip the woman over, yet Dottie is laughing and she won't allow defeat. Before Peggy can put her strength into practice, Dottie's heel hits her chest, her stomach; Peggy grabs Dottie's hair, shoves her forward, headbutts her, her knee jutting into her solar plexus, hand jolting out to stab at her neck.

They race. Hands, feet, arms and legs here, there and everywhere. Their eyes manage to follow each other, their skin collides, bones meet and break. Peggy takes on the defence, having to barricade herself from Dottie's almighty blows. She takes several steps back, managing to block her speedy attacks. They're all a blur. They all feel like one movement, Dottie is ridiculously agile, and she never once is out of breath.

Blood bursts from Peggy's lips. Dottie has punched her mouth, making Peggy accidentally bite down on her lip. Her mouth fills with the disgusting taste of blood, and she venomously spits the scarlet liquid in Dottie's face. This catches the woman temporarily off guard. Peggy kicks her so fiercely, Dottie loses balance and collapses onto her back. But she jumps up immediately, on her feet, hands out and ready to fight again.

Peggy wipes her mouth, chest heaving. She snatches the nearest item she can find: a metal pole of some sort. Peggy swirls it in her grasp, watches Dottie closely, watches her feet, sliding across the floor, her open palms, focussed eyes.

Impish grin.

'I used to be jealous of girls like you. I would have done anything to walk like you, to talk like you.' A laugh. She's delirious. Mad. 'But now, I can be anybody I want.'

One of them attacks first; Peggy isn't sure who.

What happens next neither really expect. The pole in Peggy's hand smashes into Dottie's head. Blood explodes everywhere. But Dottie is still standing. Her left eye twitches, and she growls at Peggy, eyeing the pole and then back at her. Peggy doesn't know how Dottie is still conscious.

Dottie lunges at her. Peggy's back slams into the wall, arms immobilised under Dottie's weight as the blonde presses both hands onto each side of Peggy's head, and pushes.

The amount of pain soaring from Peggy's scalp to all over her face is unbearable. Dottie tries to crush Peggy's skull, eyes wide and menacing, blood dripping off her chin. Peggy yells, scrunching her eyes shut, grimacing; the pole escapes her grip.

No. _She will not die here. Not here._

Not now.

Peggy doesn't know how she does it.

She slams down on Dottie's foot, crushing her toes. Dottie's grip on her loosens. Peggy elbows her in the face, and they're stabbing at each other again, hands and boots everywhere. A match between two equally brilliant soldiers. Peggy is slightly dazed from Dottie's recent blow, but she recovers speedily, kicking, punching, clawing, and pulling. Dottie tries to kick Peggy's knee, but misses, and it is Peggy who takes control of the situation.

In less than a second, Peggy spins around and lands a spinning hook kick, knocking Dottie off balance. She collides into the table, her head bashing into the wood. Blood trickles onto the floor, and the woman doesn't move.

Peggy waits, waits, waits.

Comes closer. Feels her pulse.

Nothing.

Dottie Underwood is dead.

No time to waste. Peggy is on the move again. She ignores the burning sensation building in the pit of her stomach, the ache in her head, how much agony her entire body is in. She grabs the box with Howard's weapon stored inside. That wanker had better be bloody grateful for what she has done. Idiot.

Absolute idiot.

Peggy turns on her heel. Rushes for the door.

 _Bang!_

The box smashes. Peggy's knees snap beneath her. The bullet is wedged far into her back, and she can feel the blood pool at her waist. Peggy sways, the smashed box at her knees. Her spine singes, like fire, burning, corroding into her flesh, her bones, her soul.

Until, suddenly, it eases. The night seems to wrap itself around her, and she's cold, and calm, and okay.

Nothing hurts anymore. Nothing hurts anymore. Everything, oh everything, is so much more blissful, and it's so much easier to _breathe_.

Dottie crouches down, Peggy's rifle in her hand, recently fired. She hooks her finger under Peggy's chin so their gaze is level.

And Peggy is certain she has seen a demon. The Devil's servant. Dottie was never dead, after all. Even if she lacked a pulse.

Her face is torn, painted in red, and smiling.

'I'm sorry to leave you like this,' she mumbles. 'I always found you such a pretty thing.' Her face draws near, and she kisses Peggy's bleeding lips, soft, like that of a ghost. 'Rest peacefully, Agent Carter.'

Peggy slumps forwards, and her body gives out. She doesn't see Dottie take the weapon, doesn't see Dottie open the door and bolt it shut behind her. She doesn't see the blood ooze through her jacket, and as she lays there, ready for death's final embrace, she closes her eyes, easing into the pain, and thinks about the girl she left behind.


	2. 02

In Bloom  
 **2.**

* * *

'Wake up. It's time to wake up.' A strong, but gentle hand rests on her shoulder, squeezes once. His voice is kind, sweet and wonderful. 'You need to wake up now.' She could fall asleep again. Just knowing he's there, that he's talking to her. It's a struggle, but she manages to open her eyes. 'There. See? I was worried you had started to get lazy. Thanks for proving me wrong again.'

The boy glows. His sharp, blue eyes blossom with joy at the sight of her. And he smiles, a beautiful smile; a sad, happy smile. The blue suit which clings to his skin is spotless, perfect, just like the tattered angel who dons it. The star at his chest. Captain America runs his fingertips across her cheek.

'How about we take a walk?'

She tries to speak.

'Don't talk. You don't have to talk. Come on. I'll help you.'

He takes her hand in his, and helps her to her feet. It is all effortless, easy. She doesn't endure the pain of her bullet wound, of the bruises Dottie inflicted upon her. She feels as if she's floating on air. The whole while, she watches him. She watches Steve take her other hand, guide her to the door.

The splinters of the wooden box are beneath her. Dottie took the weapon; she took Howard's weapon.

She inhales sharply, turns to Steve.

'Don't worry about that right now,' he soothes. 'We need to get you home, don't we?'

'I failed,' she croaks.

'No, you didn't. You simply haven't finished yet.' Steve smiles. 'You don't fail, Peggy.' Without applying any pressure, Steve manages to unlock the bolted door. It breaks open, and they are free. 'There.' He looks over to her. 'Best we be a little careful. I don't think we're welcomed here.'

'You need to go, before they––'

'I'm not going anywhere without my best girl.' Steve raises a brow. 'You know that.'

'I can't walk far, Steve.'

'Oh, yeah? Says who?'

'Look at me.'

He does.

'I should be dead.'

This hurts him. 'You'd die before we see each other one last time?' She doesn't understand what he means. Her bullet wound has started to hurt. Her back burns, and her legs are close to breaking. It hurts. Everything hurts, and she can barely breathe. Steve places an arm around her waist, pulling her to him. 'Lean on me. That should ease the pain.' He's right. She already feels better. A sigh escapes her lips.

So far, no Japanese soldiers have spotted them. The hall is clear.

'You can't leave your girl behind either,' he points out.

They take their first step forward. Peggy groans, and Steve holds her tighter. 'I left her, Steve. I can't go back to her.'

'That's stupid.'

'Don't call me stupid.'

'Sorry.'

They manage to reach the end of the hall, but Peggy has to stop. She can't describe the amount of agony she is in. Her head feels tight, still healing from Dottie's rough hands. Peggy retreats from Steve's hold, presses her back to the wall, and tries to catch her breath. Dry blood has mangled her battledress, covered her face, and she's barely recognisable. Barely human. Barely the woman she is.

Steve waits, patient and kind.

Peggy hates the way he looks at her: so soft and lovingly.

It's not fair.

It's not fair she loses those she loves so dearly.

'You must be ashamed of me, Steve, for walking away.' He frowns lightly. 'I should have done something; _anything_.'

'What else could you have done, Peggy?'

'I don't know.' And she doesn't know. She really doesn't know. 'I miss her.'

'You can go back to her.'

'Underwood will inform Howard of my apparent death. The news will reach SSR headquarters in no time.' She exclaims, clutching her shattered ribs. Instantly, Steve comes over, holds her. Peggy needs to sit down. She needs to lie down, and fall back to sleep. She needs a little rest. 'There's nothing left for me.'

'There is _so much_ left for you.' Steve is close, so near, she can reach out and touch him. 'Don't die.' He repeats Angie's words as if they were his own. 'Please don't leave us, Peggy. Please don't go.'

He is her. He is her darling face, her wide, curious eyes; her charming, cute smile. Their last conversation, Angie garbed in only Peggy's blouse, touching her and holding her after Peggy's bad dream. Her fragile words, light in Peggy's ears, quiet like a lullaby. How she begged for Peggy to stay, to stay with her; to not go anywhere without her. And all Peggy could do was kiss her silent.

The way Angie looked at her when Peggy backed down from her father. The desperate plea in her eyes for Peggy to disappear, not to come back this time. _She is too late to fix the damage._ Time has never been on Peggy's side. So, she walked away. She said her good bye, and she left. She just _left_ her. As if every second they shared together meant nothing. As if she never really loved her.

Steve comes back into view. He wipes away her tears.

'Walk with me?' He offers his hand.

Peggy takes his hand. He carefully pulls her to him.

'Hold this.'

The shield strapped to his back is removed, and he passes it to Peggy's free hand.

'We're going to run into a spot of bother. This will protect you.'

'Don't assume I'm your damsel in distress,' she mumbles, but retrieves the shield anyway. It is as light as a feather, and covers her from danger.

Steve chuckles. 'No. A distressing damsel, yes.' Somehow, Peggy manages to throw him one of her scary looks. He stops. 'Let's get you home.'

With the shield barricading any bullets, Peggy allows Steve to escort her out of the building. Their "spot of bother" appears when they near the exit. In a flash, Steve is gone from Peggy's side and she watches him defeat every single soldier present. She keeps the shield pressed to her, and as each second passes, the weaker she feels, the harder it is to stay awake. Steve is like a dream: bright and magnificent.

He's holding her hand again. They leave the building.

The freezing morning air surprises her. She breathes. _Breathes_. Steve is lost in another brawl, and, as always, he is victorious. Any bullets shot in Peggy's direction bounce of the shield, and even rebound. Steve is Captain America, her hero, her dearest, and he grins at her ear-to-ear when they near the end of the camp.

One of Steve's opponents has a radio. He knocks him down. Peggy slumps into him, eyes beginning to flutter shut.

'Not yet, Peggy. We need to get you home.'

'I left my home when I came here.'

'Don't let go of the shield. Don't let go of me.'

She doesn't remember him finding a signal, putting in the right code, because in a matter of seconds, a voice comes from the radio. He speaks English. Steve gasps in delight, and reports of Peggy's survival, that she needs help, that her companion has turned rogue, that help needs to come immediately––she has to go home.

The voice responds. Steve smashes the radio. Takes her hand.

'Help is coming. Come with me.'

It's all a blur. Suddenly, the camp is behind her, far behind her, and her feet run, her thighs ache, and the shield remains clutched to her body. Both Steve and Peggy flee, hand in hand, and they don't stop running. They run, they run, and they run. Her body surrenders, her knees give in, and she falls to the dirt.

The shield has gone.

Steve calls her name, and when she looks up, she's horrified that he's ahead of her. His feet seem to drag him away. He doesn't stop. He keeps calling for her, he keeps telling her to catch up with him, but she can't. She's too tired. She's too tired. The dirt has eaten away at her wounds, and she vomits violently.

When she looks up again, he has vanished.

Peggy doesn't yell his name. She doesn't have the energy; she wants to sleep. Her hands slip on the dirt, and she falls forward, lost and broken. Maybe she'll sleep here, she'll sleep here forever. Maybe help isn't coming, maybe Steve was all a dream, all a dream again. Maybe she's still locked in that room.

Maybe she is dead.

Rain washes away the blood, and her battledress is soaked. The rain cleanses her, washes away all the nasty stains; the rain clears away the evil which has stuck to her body. She falls asleep in the rain, and the wound in her back bleeds, bleeds, bleeds. She's pale, thin, shuddering, wet and abandoned.

Forgotten.

A hand, smaller, but rougher than Steve's, grabs Peggy by the scruff of her collar. Peggy is forced to sit upright, her knees sinking into the mud. The rain patters onto the battledress, clears the dirt from her face.

'What're you doin' lazing around, English?'

Her voice. She can hear her.

Peggy opens her eyes. She looks left. And then right.

Nothing but rain, and the fog.

'This way! Captain America is getting worried about ya, but you're just lazy!' Peggy panics. She can't see her. 'You need to get home, English.'

Peggy reaches out into the rain.

'Where are you?'

Angie's laughter is wonderful to her ears. 'You'll have to find me, won't you?'

'Wait.' Peggy scrambles to her feet. Her boot slips a little in the dirt. Her back scorches when she dares stand up. Peggy yells out, hunched forward. She scrunches her eyes shut, inhales, and straightens. Her shoulders ache tremendously, and her legs––her legs cannot go on. 'Angie, wait.' She steps forward. Her spine sends a horrid shock through her body. 'I don't know where you are.'

'I'm right here, Pegs.'

And then she can see her. A distant, faded memory. She wears one of her favourite summer dresses, and her hair is down; she's youthful, pretty and full of energy. Despite the rain, Angie is dry. Peggy steps forward again. She winces. The pain doesn't seem to end. She looks at Angie again, but she's too far away for Peggy to touch her, to feel her, to hold her, to kiss her.

'Take a walk with me.'

'How can I, when you continue to run off?'

Angie smiles gently. 'I'm not runnin' off. I'll wait for ya.'

So, with Angie several steps ahead, Peggy follows her. She keeps her eyes on Angie, and watching Angie twirl and skip in the long grass eases the pain; helps her forget. Peggy is enchanted. The war is behind her, and she lives in Angie's joy. She's able to forget about everything, and just focus on her.

Her.

Only her.

They walk for possibly hours. Neither count the passing seconds.

Until, eventually, Angie comes to a stop. Peggy is barely conscious; she's not even sure if she is. Peggy drops to her knees, her battledress sticking to her frail body. Angie kneels before her, claims Peggy's face between her hands, and has Peggy look at her. She's exactly as she remembers her. Exactly the same.

Angie is untouched by the rain. Her smile has faded some.

Now, she looks at Peggy, sorry and scared. Angie kisses Peggy's forehead, runs a hand through her hair. She nears Peggy's ear and whispers, 'Come home to me.' Peggy hears her, she hears her, and when she turns to see Angie properly, to see her eyes, her face, everything that she is, Angie is no longer there.

Peggy starts to cry. Her tears fall with the rain.

'Don't go, don't go, don't go, don't go.'

Her palms meet the mud, and she can't do this anymore. She's travelled as far as she can. Her mind has taunted her as much as it can. Peggy gives in. Peggy lets death win this round. She exhales, closes her eyes, and rests into the dirt. Minutes pass, and she hasn't moved, completely immobilised, with the faintest breath.

Heavy boots splatter into the mud several metres away. Three soldiers, a medic amongst them, are running in her direction. There's no telling how long they have travelled for. Weaponry is on their person, helmets pressed to their scalps. The man in front points forward. They see a body; it isn't moving, but it's still a body and it could be the one they are searching for.

They have responded to Steve Roger's radio transmission.

They have come to rescue her.

Both Steve and Angie have guided her here, and she is saved.

Peggy doesn't wake up when a hand reaches out for her this time. They check her pulse, have the medic briefly inspect her wounds, estimate whether she has a chance of survival or not.

She has a chance.


	3. 03

**author's note** : Apologies for the extreme angst to follow, but if I said things get better, will you stick by my side? _I need you._

* * *

In Bloom  
 **3.**

* * *

They arrive at noon. Two of them; two soldiers. Two young boys. One, the oldest, says absolutely nothing. Whereas the other, the youngest, is charming and sweet. And when he approaches her, gives her the envelope, he smiles timidly, sympathetically. He doesn't really know what he's supposed to do. He's too young to know; he's too young to be announcing the death of loved ones.

Before she's given the opportunity to read the addressed envelope, he speaks. His voice is shaky, slightly high-pitched. 'We understand that you knew Agent Carter; in fact, the agent who was with her stated you two were very close. Is that right? Please say, because I don't want to have given this letter to the wrong person.'

And she sort of just stands there, lips parted, the envelope loosely in her grip. It has been nearly two months since Peggy Carter walked away, and left her life. During those two months, so much has happened, and she wants to believe that all of the events which have occurred have helped her forget about the woman. She doesn't want to care, she doesn't want to care.

Trembling, she tries her best to maintain her composure. 'We were friends,' her voice is strangled; tears sting her eyes. 'What d'you wanna tell me?' She is persistent. She needs to know at once, she needs to know so she can finally move on. She needs this young soldier to either tell her to open the letter, or tell her that Agent Carter is dead. This time, she _is_ dead. They found her body, abandoned, left behind by her companion. The very thought makes Angie want to burst into tears.

She doesn't, though.

The soldier glances at the engagement ring on her fourth finger.

'I'm sorry we couldn't have told you sooner. Agent Carter died several weeks ago; killed in action.'

'Oh,' Angie gasps.

'A bullet wound. The infection killed her.'

Angie swallows, and clings onto the letter so tightly, it creases. She looks at him, and suddenly hopes this isn't happening. She wants him to laugh, pat her shoulder, and then say he's just joking. Peggy _is_ alive, and Peggy will return to New York very soon. The older soldier has turned away at this point, whereas the younger one won't stop _watching her_ , with that guilt-ridden look in his eyes.

The letter is a weight in her hands.

And a knife slices her heart to ribbons.

She doesn't feel pain. Not really. She just feels _empty_. Hollow. As if her life, her soul, has been sucked out of her body. And all she wants to do is vomit, all she wants to do is throw up, get rid of everything left inside her. She wants to burn everything that is associated with Peggy; wants to scrub her skin until it's raw, erase Peggy's touch and her sweet kisses.

Angie blinks, and tears silently pour.

'We're very sorry, Miss Martinelli.'

So she smiles, an understanding smile. 'Thanks for tellin' me.'

There is a customer, who has stopped drinking his coffee, observing the scene. Finally, the two soldiers depart, and they will forget about what happened, they will move on, they won't cry tonight about Agent Carter. They probably didn't know who she was. They probably don't even recognise the name.

Angie glances at the letter.

It is addressed to her.

Then her body _reacts_. The entire world crumbles around her, and she can't breathe; she feels like she's _drowning_ , desperate to reach the surface, but still never quite reaching it. Angie holds the letter, and approaches the staff area. A colleague asks if she's all right, but she ignores her, quickens her pace, and then runs into the female lavatory. Angie locks the door behind her.

She stops. She inhales.

Let this be a dream.

Please, please, _please_.

Angie slumps to the floor, and she's still. She stares at the wall, and tears freely trickle down her cheeks; she doesn't weep. Just leaks with tears. Something hard is pressing down on her chest, crushing her lungs, and then it starts to hurt. Just a little at first; a sort of irritated sensation. One that won't _budge_. Gradually, it increases, until it is hot, a fissure in her chest, likes waves, and she pictures Peggy's face and that is enough to make Angie fall apart completely. Her love is gone.

She's trembling so much she can't open the envelope.

And she's crying, crying, crying, breaking out in harsh sobs. Her body viciously shudders, constantly shuddering, furious and raging. She tears apart the paper, and pulls out the telegram. She can barely read the words. Angie gasps for air, clings to the telegram, and she doesn't take it away from her until she has absorbed _every single_ word. A brief, heartless sentence.

Written for nobody.

 _Regret to inform you Agent Margaret Anne Carter U.S.A. killed in action March 18th._

She brushes her fingertips over the agent's name.

 _Killed in action._

 _Killed in action._

 _Killed._

Peggy was killed.

Somebody killed her; no one knows who. But somebody _killed_ her. And Angie isn't stupid; she was conscious of the fate which may be bestowed upon Peggy. She knew she might get killed in the war. Her job involved that danger, and Peggy was aware of that danger. _But Peggy, her poor, lovely, darling Peggy, was_ _ **killed**_ _._ She was _killed_. Murdered. Someone _deliberately_ shot her.

Angie drops the telegram.

It flutters to the floor.

She wraps her arms around her thin body, hunches forward and sobs, quiet enough so she is not heard. She sobs over Peggy Carter, locked in the lavatory, alone and unloved. She sobs for her, she sobs for her. She sobs, and she can't stop. The tears don't stop. Her throat becomes rough, her eyes sore, bloodshot, but even when the hour has passed, she continues to cry.

And constantly, in her head, she tells herself until she _believes_ it: Peggy is dead. Peggy is dead. Peggy is dead.

But it doesn't work.

Angie rises to her feet, presses her palms to the sink, and looks at her reflection in the mirror. She's a mess. A disgraceful mess. Broken and unfixable. And now that Peggy is gone, forever, what does Angie have to live for? Peggy was the only one in the world who accepted her, who loved her.

She winces, agony pouring out of her body.

If her hearts stop beating, so be it.

Because surely death is more desirable than this torture.

At least, then, Angie will be with her. She will be with her, for an eternity, and that will be that.

Angie whispers, her voice weak and pained; she whispers she loves her. She still loves her, and she needs her.

 _I need you back._

 _Don't leave me._

There's a sudden knock at the door. Angie jolts in surprise, and frantically wipes her face. It's so obvious she has been crying, but she doesn't care. Let them see her face, let them see her fall apart, let them see what it's like to endure the most consuming, excruciating and piercing pain ever possible.

'Angie, are you okay, honey?' Her friend calls from the other side of the door.

'Mm-Hm!' Angie sniffles, quickly washing her eyes in an attempt to rid the red splotches. 'I won't be a sec!' She remembers how Peggy held her, how warm and comfortable she felt, how she could hear her heartbeat whenever she lay with her, and how tenderly Peggy would kiss her lips, as if Angie were the most fragile, and beautiful thing in the world.

And she always felt as if she was. When Peggy was there, with her.

She fiddles with the engagement ring.

The promise from a man she barely knows. A man her father pushed on her, insisted that he was perfect, he was handsome, smart and that they would have a happy marriage.

But he is not Peggy. He is not a soldier. He is not tormented by his past. He doesn't smile the way Peggy smiles. He doesn't have Peggy's eyes. He doesn't talk like Peggy. He doesn't kiss the way Peggy kisses Angie. He doesn't _love_ Angie the way Peggy loved Angie. He is nothing like Peggy, and Angie cannot love him.

She will always be this way: damaged.

Angie catches her breath. She closes her eyes, inhales slowly. Exhales slowly. Opens her eyes. Blue, shattered irises gaze back at her. She counts to five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

 _One_.

Telegram stuffed into her pocket, Angie unlocks the door, and walks out.

* * *

For the past week, Howard Stark has not left her side. Her body was discovered nearly two months ago, and there is little hope that Peggy will wake up. But he is one of few who insists on having a little hope, and, Christ, it is _hard_. It is hard to have hope when he is informed about his friend's condition. She suffered blood poisoning, broken bones and she should have died.

Because no one can withstand that amount of trauma.

Not even Captain America.

But, Howard stops the doctor, and reminds him that she is not Captain America. This catches the doctor slightly off guard but he nods regardless. Howard bows his head as the doctor continues. It's awful, everything about Peggy's condition is awful, and at one point, Howard interrupts––"thank you"––and walks away.

This is his fault.

His fault, entirely.

Peggy will breathe her last in a matter of seconds because of him.

Why did he not realise? Why did he not realise Agent Underwood was not who she said she was? Why was he so _stupid_? Allured by her charm. So blind from the sex, the romantic dates, the talk of war. Of glory.

What Howard is puzzled by is how Peggy managed to get out alone, how she managed to send a radio transmission, a call for help, and how she walked for miles and miles until she reached the coast. Without anybody to assist her.

He sits by her bed, presses his face to his hands, and waits.

Let the world burn because of him, but don't punish _Peggy_ for it.

And so a week does pass, a week of him waiting, watching her lifeless form, trapped in her sleep. Peggy's pretty face is battered: her lower lip is swollen, and she has a black eye, the lid swollen to a considerable size. Her cheek has been stitched back together, but the worst damage is hidden beneath the copious bandages.

Peggy has had numerous surgeries, most extremely risky, one of them a failure in itself. Howard has tried to suggest a few ways to improve the surgeries, but the doctors won't listen to him, and he has become this pathetic essence of what he once was. As if Captain America and Peggy's death have washed away his ego.

If Steve were alive today, what would he think?

What would he think of Peggy's sleeping form? Her torn face?

What would he think of _Howard_? The coward that he is, staying put while Peggy ran off to fix the damage _he_ caused.

He wonders if there is another in Peggy's life now. If that poor gentleman knows anything about her. Or gentle _woman_ , for that matter. Howard props himself on one elbow, and stares uselessly. His gaze falls to her hand, loose at her side. Howard swallows. Reaches over and takes her hand, running his thumb over her knuckles.

'It's not really fair, is it?' He murmurs. 'That I get to see you looking this way, because I'll be brutally honest with you, Miss Carter: you look like how I feel.' He chuckles, more to himself, but the humour dries quickly. 'C'mon, Peggy. If I were in your place, you wouldn't have it. Actually, you'd probably bring me back to life, and then kill me yourself. You'd miss me, though, and you're gonna miss me when you're dead, so why not snap out of this phase you're going through, and tell me what happened out there?'

Peggy sleeps.

Howard raises a brow. 'I don't appreciate the silent treatment, either. I know you're mad at me, but I'd rather we discussed this like civilised adults.'

Nothing.

Howard stops for a moment, and then: 'Steve didn't die for this, Peggy. You were meant to live _this_ life.' Nothing. He doesn't know what to expect. 'If you're gone, who's gonna keep me in line, eh? _Me_? Tsk. That's not gonna happen.' The corner of his mouth twitches. 'This isn't funny anymore, Carter.'

'How is she?'

Whipping his head around, Howard sees the doctor at the foot of the bed.

'Still having her beauty sleep,' Howard replies. He turns to Peggy, 'I think she just needs a little more rest, don't you, my good man?'

The doctor doesn't answer.

'Mister Stark, you've been here for over a week. Hadn't you best go home?'

'I'm perfectly capable at making my own decisions, _thank you_ ,' he snaps.

'Very well,' the doctor shrugs, unnerved. 'I'll see you again shortly.'

'Doctor.' Howard watches him walk away, and when he's out of the ward, Howard cracks a grin. 'I bet you and he would really hit it off. He's been nothing but a pain in my ass, so that's something you both have in common.'

The man slumps into his seat, retired.

Peggy doesn't wake.

So he waits. He waits for his friend to either give up, or stand to her feet again. Whatever decision she makes, he will wait. That's all he can do. The weapon is in the hands of the enemy still, but, currently, he cares very little. If the earth explodes _now_ , he won't care. His invention is not important.

The night drags.

Howard snores loudly, his feet propped on the edge of Peggy's bed. A patient nearby is getting annoyed with his noise.

So annoyed even, the patient throws his novel at Howard.

It hits him square in the face.

'Oh!' Howard jolts awake, looks at the book, then at the patient who now pretends to sleep. Rubbing his sore head, Howard picks up the book, and is about to throw it aside when he sees Peggy's working eye is open.

Peggy's eye is open.

Peggy is awake.

Peggy is alive.

'Mother of God.' Howard nearly trips over.

Frantic, he drops the book, hurries to her side, grasps her hand and leans over her.

'Peggy? Hey. Peggy, it's me. Peggy?'

She stares at the ceiling, incapable of moving. Howard comes closer, and runs a hand across her cheek.

Peggy finds him then. Her lips part and she croaks out a word.

'What? What was that?' Howard asks, a smile stretching over his face.

Peggy pauses, and tries again.

'Wanker.'

Howard hears her voice, and he doesn't know whether to jump up and down or just cry. He thinks it best he doesn't do either for now. 'Oh, God. Oh, _God_ , you cruel, little _minx_ , I thought you––' He stops. Howard presses his forehead to her shoulder, and cuddles her tightly. ' _Peggy_.' He looks at her, grinning ear-to-ear. 'You came back because I asked you nicely, didn't you?'

Peggy blinks up at him.

'I'm so happy you're alive. Look at you!'

Peggy looks to the right. Then to the left. Then back at Howard. Her voice is so weak and quiet he has to lean in to hear her.

'What day… what day is it?'

Of course he's aware of what she's really asking. How long has she been asleep for? How long has it been? Howard curls his lips, and considers lying, but Peggy will eventually find out and she'll probably break his nose.

And he really likes his nose.

'May 29th.'

She doesn't react. There's nothing in her expression.

'You've been out for two months, Peggy.'

'That's quite… some time, Mister Stark.'

'Yes. Yes, it is.'

'Where is Underwood?'

Howard runs a hand through her hair. 'C'mon, Pegs, let's not––'

'Where is she?'

'We don't know.'

Peggy stiffens.

'Please, don't get in a state. We will find her eventually.'

'I saw him.' Peggy's face contorts in pain, and Howard freezes. She inhales shakily, clenching the bed sheet. 'Steve helped me escape, Howard.'

'What?'

'I saw him; he helped me get away.'

'Steve?'

'And…' Peggy breathes, closes her eye. '… and I saw her too.'

'Her?'

'She took me to the coast… she…' Peggy winces. 'Howard.'

'Are you in pain? Let me––'

Peggy grabs his jacket and pulls him to her. 'I saw her. Is…' Peggy clings. 'Is she here, Howard? Is she here?'

'Who? Who do you want to see, Peggy?'

'Angie. I want to see Angie.'

'Angie…' Howard frowns, 'Who's Angie?'

'I want to see her,' Peggy's voice breaks, and she sobs so suddenly Howard doesn't know what to do with himself. 'Why does everything hurt? I––I can't feel––I can't––why does it hurt so much to breathe?'

'Take it easy. Hey, hey. Peggy, stop it. A _lot_ has happened to you, and your body is still healing. We––we didn't think you'd wake up. We––' He exhales, 'God bless you, Peggy.' He smiles, sad and bittersweet. 'We thought you were dead. I thought you were dying; I thought it was all my fault. It _is_ my fault. Oh, God, you must _loathe_ me––'

' _Howard_.'

'Sorry. I'm sorry. You just––you can't get out of bed right now. You probably can't for a while, but if you tell me how to get in contact with this Angie, I'm sure she'll visit you straightaway.'

The memories of Angie come _screaming_ at her.

She can see her, so vividly, dancing in the field, so vividly, holding her close and begging her not to die, she can see her, she can see her, shielded by her father, as if Peggy were a _monster_. She can see her, she can see her face, she can her so well, and Peggy remembers.

Angie will not visit her.

Because Peggy doesn't exist in her life. Not anymore.

'I love her.' She struggles. Howard holds her, eyes on her, listening. 'I love her; I'll always love her, and I left her, Howard. I was so _stupid_.'

'Does she not love you too?'

'I––I hope.'

'Then she'll take you back. She must take you back.'

'I can't do that.' Peggy's grip on him loosens. Her back is aching, her chest stings, and her wounds are on fire. 'I've already made a ruin out of her.'

'I think you're being a little dramatic––'

'Can you––can you see her for me? I need you to see her. I need to know if she's okay.'

'What good will I do?'

'Just see her, Howard. For me.' Peggy's ruined, wonderful face is wet from tears and she tries to smile. A smile of her own: shattered and _hopeful_. 'Tell me if she's happy.'

Howard nods. 'All right. I will. I swear to it.'


	4. 04

In Bloom  
 **4.**

* * *

The final day of March passes by unnoticed. When she returns home on the Tuesday, her father is back before her, and he's slouched in a chair. There is a bottle of alcohol, untouched, on the table. He has deliberately placed it before him, out of temptation, out of some sick torment. Ever since his daughter's engagement, he's been trying to stop drinking, but he is foolish to believe a husband will fix his tiny family's problems.

In a way, he regrets it all. He met the gentleman, Henry Ashton, only a week prior to him introducing his daughter. A school teacher, mid-thirties. Dmitri found him quite a simple man, until he really started to know him. Henry has views, controversial views, particularly on religion. He does not see himself as Catholic, but Protestant, not that Dmitri believes him. More accurately, he doesn't _want_ to believe him.

Dmitri drums his fingers onto the table, eyeing the alcohol. Angie unbuttons her coat and sits opposite him. He smiles at her. Angie has not told him about the telegram she received a few weeks back, and she has not told him about how she feels regarding the marriage. She hasn't told him anything, and they both prefer it that way. He speaks to her in Italian. ' _Father Thomas will come round tomorrow, just to see how you're doing._ '

' _I don't want to see him, Papà._ ' Angie stands to pour herself a glass of water.

' _You have to see him._ ' She scowls. The corner of Dmitri's mouth twitches. ' _I'm only doing what's good for you, angel._ '

She turns to him, glass clutched so tightly in her hand it may break. Angie wants to throw the glass at the wall, watch the tiny pieces shatter to the floor. Just like her aching heart. It has been days since she received that cursed telegram, and she _still can't stop thinking about Peggy_. She wants to move on––desperately.

It's not sadness she endures anymore. It is impossible to _smile_. To see any brightness in the world. Peggy's death makes the skies so much darker. Life is more forbidding without her. Angie feels _nothing_ but this twisted anger. Why did she turn out this way? Why has God punished her like this? Why make her strange? Why make her fall in love with a soldier, who is now _dead_? Why force her into a marriage she'll never be happy in?

Why is God so _cruel_ to her?

Angie voice cracks as she yells at him. ' _I am_ _ **trying**_ _, Papà! I have done everything you've asked of me! I don't know what else to do. Nothing I do makes you happy––you make it_ _ **impossible**_ _for me to_ _ **live**_.'

Now he is on his feet too, hands clenched at his sides. ' _I want to help you, but you won't let me! When that woman left, I hoped––I_ _ **hoped**_ _you'd see sense. You'd be normal again. You wouldn't be maddened by this––this Hellish desire anymore. You deserve that, baby girl. You deserve to be free from what is wrong with you. I want to help you because I love you so much._ '

Tears are threatening to squeeze out of her eyes. Angie can't cry again. She has cried too much. She can't cry again. Stepping away, she presses her back to the counter, detesting him. ' _If I am wrong, then I don't want to be right, Papà!_ '

' _They'll take you away from me!_ '

Angie widens her eyes at that remark. She clenches her jaw, places the glass aside. Dmitri is correct: they _will_ take her away from him. God knows where they will send her, God knows what they will do to her, but they _will_ take her away. Father Tomas wants this man, Henry, to _fix_ her, to make her realise that she has been wrong this whole time; that she never saw sense, but now she can, now she has that opportunity to.

Cautiously, Dmitri approaches her, places his hands on her shoulders. Angie turns her head away, and her expression is dead. A disturbing contrast to the anger and pain leaking through her father's eyes. He thinks it's that woman again––she's come back to torment his daughter further. That soldier, whoever she is. The girl Angie writes letters to, her name spat out at Father Tomas' final lash.

He reaches for her left hand, runs his thumb across her engagement ring. Angie follows his line of gaze, and she hates the thing. Hates, hates, hates it. The ring doesn't feel right; it _cages_ her, as if she were a tiny bird. Trapped behind steel bars, chained to the ground, incapable of escape. _How she misses flight_. Angie is trapped, and her father can't see that, so blinded by his faith, his morals, his twisted love for his daughter.

Christ have mercy.

Let them take her away. Let them snatch her by her sinful wrists, beat her, scream at her, prod their knives and bloody crosses into her skin. She has had it. Living a lie, living a secret, living as a woman she does not recognise. Living as if _everything_ were beautiful in the world, when the world _suffocates_ her. Angie can't _breathe_. Her lungs have given out, her vision has clouded over, and any sense of joy has been drained from her body.

She has nothing left. Peggy took what remained of the poor girl when she walked away.

Viciously, Angie yanks out of her father's grip, and runs upstairs. The ring digs into her finger as she searches for the telegram. Hidden beneath her floorboard. She smoothes out the telegram, reads the single sentence––twice––and then she burns it. She takes her father's lighter, and _burns_ the telegram, watching Margaret Anne Carter's name scorch into ash. Disappearing into the air. Gone.

Relieved, Angie drops the lighter, and it clatters to the floor.

On her knees, she wipes away the ash, scatters it across the wood. Some of it gets on her uniform, and she quickly brushes it off. Every part of it. She wipes away Peggy's death, but the burnt paper clings to her material, and, eventually, Angie gives up trying to clear it away. Let it stay on her. Let it _burn_ her too. What does it matter? Oh, what does it matter?

God has not gifted her life. God has not healed her. God, according to Father Tomas, will turn His back to her if she does not _change_. But, she thinks, deep down, maybe He already has turned His back on her. And if that is so, she has no hope left. No opportunity to be fixed. She breathes, and bows her head, exhausted, ready to cry again, just ready to _burst_.

Their hands will hurt. Their whips will make her bleed. Their prayers will haunt her mind. When the asylum doors are closed on her, she'll never inhale fresh air again. She'll never see the clouds, the bright, blue sky. No more rainbows. No more lying in the long grass, surrounded by pretty flowers, the warm sunshine embracing her. The snow. No more Christmases, no more running in the park with girls, no more kisses, no more smiles, no more handsome soldiers to wave good bye to, no more wars. Nothing. All to go.

No more whispered promises under the sheets.

' _Write to me––like last time.'_

' _I'll write everyday.'_

Peggy would want her safe. Peggy would want her happy.

If only those two options came together.

But, Peggy isn't here. She left. Fiddling with her engagement ring, Angie considers telling Henry the truth. That she has loved women, and she _loves_ a woman; she has made love with a woman who is now dead. And that she'll never love him. She'll never be able to love him. She won't be perfect. She is not a wife. She is not _his_ wife, and she will never be his wife. And if he so wishes to take her hand, it is he who will live miserably.

And she shall remain a sinful, little creature.

* * *

The following morning, Henry is at the diner, and he tries to talk to her. Angie tries to ignore him. She doesn't have a choice when he suddenly grabs her hand––her left––and when she looks at him, he gives her a sort of sad, confused smile. She immediately feels guilty, because he doesn't understand; he has no idea what's going on, but he knows that something _is_ going on, even if Angie refuses to tell him.

'What's on your mind?' She likes his voice. It's a very gentle voice. It lacks the heavy emotions Peggy always used to carry around with her; it lacks the pity, the reluctance, the cold sense of loss. It's _his_ voice. Pure, happy, a lucky man to have escaped the full thrust of the war. He is not a soldier, and she almost hates him for it. 'Tell me.'

Tell him.

Tell him.

Tell him.

Tell him you are in love with Agent Margaret Carter. Tell him you are so terribly, deeply, agonisingly in love with a ghost.

And it _kills_ you.

'I'm just a little tired.'

Henry's smile quivers. 'Oh, okay.' He slips his hand from hers. There is a small pile of his students' work beside him ready to be marked. But he's looking at Angie instead, eyes adoring, hopeful, and so bright. He has such bright eyes. 'I wanted to tell you something.' Finally, his gaze falls and she feels her shoulders relax. 'If that's all right.'

After some hesitance, Angie leans towards him. 'I'm all ears.'

'A dear friend of mine died the other week. I didn't want to tell you because I knew you had enough on your plate.' He swallows. 'It was very hard to, uh… It's just been very hard. Losing him. We were very close.'

When Henry meets her gaze, he realises Angie has gone awfully pale.

He frowns. 'Are you okay?'

'Mm.' Angie clears her throat, and squares her shoulders. 'No, just… It's funny you say that, is all.'

'What do you mean?'

'I lost somebody too.'

'You did?' He softens his expression. 'Oh, sweetie… Who was he?'

Angie is still; she doesn't even blink. Who was he? He? She wants to laugh. She wants to cry. She wants to cry and laugh at him. Her blue eyes linger on his face, and she needs him to read her. She needs him to realise. She needs him to correct his mistake. She needs him to stand to his feet, and walk away.

Because if she can't be free, at least he can be.

 _Who was he?_

'… No one.' Angie straightens, and scrunches her nose. 'He was no one.'

Henry cocks a brow. 'Was he? So… you're all right?'

And is she? Is she all right? Is she all right when she's in bed, thinking about Peggy, crying into the pillow until her tears run dry, and her dreams hit? Is she all right to have burnt the telegram? Is she all right? Is she all right that the love of her life is dead, shot, a bullet through her body? Is she all right that Peggy's body has been torn, torn where Angie's lips have been?

Is she all right?

Will she be all right?

Angie kisses his lips. As she pulls back, she sees the blush spread across his cheeks, and he chuckles, a little nervous, a little bashful. She wants to smile, she wants to laugh too; she wants to feel all right. _She wants to feel all right_. Angie kisses him again, harder, and Henry is shocked, flattered, and she retreats.

Nothing.

She feels nothing.

 _She is not all right._

'Darling?'

Peggy.

Peggy calls her darling. Peggy calls her darling.

Her darling.

Angie wraps her arms around herself. She wants to be sick. 'I'm sorry.'

'What, why?' He laughs. 'You have nothing to be sorry about.'

He means it, innocent and sweet. So, so, so ignorant of the truth. Angie imagines it: pulling him close, and telling him how it is. She imagines telling him everything about Peggy, about how she made her feel alive, _real_ , how she convinced her that she did not need fixing, how she was so, _so_ wonderful. How she didn't deserve to die; how much Angie would give just to see her one last time.

She imagines it.

Imagines one last dance with her girl.

The door opens, and in steps a gentleman, wearing smart attire. He dons a bowler hat, has a distinctive moustache, and a cigarette is delicately balanced between his lips. Henry furrows his brows, and follows Angie's line of gaze. The gentleman with the moustache looks over at Angie, then notices the man, noticeably cringes and shuffles towards the nearest table. He covers his face with a newspaper.

Henry turns to Angie. 'Hey.'

Angie blinks rapidly, and focusses her attention back to Henry. She swears she recognises that man, but maybe she's just going mad. Maybe she's recognising everyone to be everyone. 'I should get back to work, honey,' she says, distracted. Henry opens his mouth to speak, but Angie has already walked away and is approaching the table where the moustachioed man is sitting. Henry watches her, and the colour in his cheeks drains away.

The moustachioed man does not look up when Angie approaches.

She _does_ recognise him.

This is the gentleman Peggy sat with moments before she was sent away. This is the gentleman who sat with Peggy and that Dottie girl. She knows him. Angie _knows_ him, and she knows that this man knows Peggy.

She knows that Peggy's death is on him.

Henry jumps to his feet and hurries over when Angie snatches away the newspaper, and punches Howard in the face.

'Whoa, Ange, whoa!' Henry exclaims, pulling Angie back by the waist.

Howard groans, and presses his bleeding nose to his palm. 'Ow.'

'Let me have 'im,' Angie growls, 'I know who he is. Ya hear? I know who _you_ are.'

'Oh, goody. That means I don't have to introduce myself,' Howard mutters, really unimpressed with Angie's not-so-polite welcome. 'Howard Stark. It would have been a pleasure.' He narrows his brows at Henry. 'Who are you?'

Henry is startled at the confrontation. 'My name is––'

'On second thoughts, never mind. I didn't come here to see you.' Howard rises, pulls out a handkerchief and wipes the blood from his nose. Angie has calmed down a little, but she's more than willing to slam her fist into his nose again if he dares step out of line. Howard's eyes are still on Henry. 'Do you mind? I'd love to have some privacy with Miss Martinelli.'

Henry steps closer to the Italian, and brings an arm around her shoulders. 'I don't think that would be appropriate.'

'What?' Howard automatically searches for the band on Angie's finger. He halts. 'Oh, _dear_.'

Angie is more confused than angry now. Henry, on the other hand, has stepped past her, now ready to challenge this man. 'I must ask you to leave.'

'I don't think that's up to you.'

'Yes, it is. You're making Angie uncomfortable.'

Before Angie can speak for herself, Howard interjects, 'She won't be feeling uncomfortable when I tell her what I'm thinking.' That came out not as smoothly as Howard had hoped. 'Uh, I didn't mean it like that––'

'Is there something you need?'

'Will you both stop it?' Angie, as small as she is, manages to push herself in-between the two men. She gives Henry a look, and then faces Howard. 'What d'you wanna talk about? You need to be quick; I'm working.'

Howard is relieved Angie has taken a stand. 'I can only tell you in private.'

'This is ridic––'

'Henry, go.'

Her fiancé stares at her, flabbergasted. Howard smirks. 'You heard the lady.' Angie internally cringes. She doesn't want to upset him, but she's eager to know what Howard has to say, and her heart is racing so fast; she needs to know what it is. If it's about Peggy. If she said anything before her death, if there is more to her death than Angie knows.

More out of cowardice, Angie can't look at Henry as he walks away to collect his work, and then out of the diner. And she hopes to God that Henry does not report back to her father about her behaviour.

'Thank you, Miss Martinelli,' Howard says. They sit down opposite each other, and he can't stop staring at her engagement ring.

Angie hides it with her other hand. 'Mister?'

'Mm. Yes. Sorry.'

'What is it?'

'I…' Howard sighs. 'I'm not too sure what to say.'

'Just say it.' Angie holds her breath, and waits, but Howard is quiet, irritatingly so. She can't stop herself. The words tumble out of her mouth. 'Is this about Peggy?'

Howard looks at her sharply. 'Yes.'

Angie's throat narrows. She leans closer. 'You gotta tell me, Mister. What is it?'

'What do you know?'

Angie knows Hell. She knows Hell, and that is just about all she knows. And she knows that Hell was sweeter when Peggy walked by her, hand-in-hand, through the fire. She knows she has lost the last person on earth she'll ever come to love, and she cannot voice that. She cannot find the words. She can't, she can't. She can't tell Howard about Peggy's death, she can't tell Howard, _show Howard_ , how much pain she is in.

The temperature drops dramatically.

Angie fears she may cry if she says anything.

To her relief, Howard seems to catch on. He nods, 'Okay.' A long exhale. He's looking at her engagement ring. 'Congratulations.'

Angie desperately tears off the ring, and slams it onto the table. It bounces off the surface in her fury. 'Look! Stare at the damn thing, and _tell me_!' Red, hot tears pour down her cheeks. She clings to the edge of the table. 'You gotta tell me, Mister Stark. What happened to her? Why did ya send her out when you knew she coulda died? Why'd you do that? How could you take her away from me? How could you take her away _at all_?'

'I'm sorry, I––'

'Your sorries won't bring her back, Mister.' Angie wipes her eyes with her sleeve, and she mumbles against the material, 'She was all I had.'

Howard looks hopeless as he watches her cry. He blinks, and stubs out his cigarette, before removing his bowler hat.

'Miss Martinelli.'

He stands and sits next to her. Angie stiffens, stares at him with watery eyes. He takes both of her hands, and holds them tight in his lap.

'I probably shouldn't be doing this. I was told to come and find you, but I––' He glances at the ring on the table, '––I don't know if I should do this, that's all.'

Angie's breathing has accelerated. Her heart is about to burst. It's beating too fast. 'You wanna tell me about Peggy. I wanna know what you gotta say––so why can't you just _say it_ , Mister? Say it or I'll punch you again.'

'Okay, please don't do that.' Howard squeezes her hands, more out of affection than fear. He forgets about the ring, and his eyes are soft as they find hers. He watches another tear escape, and it's all he can handle. He sighs. 'I didn't want to cause her further pain, but I suppose I don't have an option.'

Angie waits.

'I understand you received a telegram concerning Peggy's death?'

Angie trembles. She nods.

'Her sister received one as well.'

She's shaking so much, Howard feels the need to hold her.

He breathes.

'There was a mistake. You both weren't supposed to receive one.'

'What d'you mean?'

'Peggy is not dead, Angie. She survived. We found her body, and she was _nearly_ dead, but not quite. She's had a few surgeries, and is currently in a hospital bed, but she's alive, and she woke up about a week ago. She's okay.'

Suddenly, Angie retreats her hand.

A moment passes. She doesn't understand. She doesn't believe him. Angie scowls at Howard, 'You shouldn't tease me!' Her body is shuddering, her teeth chattering, and she's so, so cold. She hates him for taunting her, for joking about Peggy, for making her believe in such beautiful fiction. Angie is on her feet, desperate to get away.

Howard grabs her arm. 'Miss, please, you need to listen––'

'I don't wanna.' Angie tries to fight out of his grip, but he's stronger. 'Let me go, Mister.'

'Peggy is _alive_. She is alive. She's breathing. She wants to see you. I––' Howard stops. 'Well, I wasn't supposed to tell you that. I wasn't… She wanted me to check on you, to see how you're doing, and I saw the ring and––'

'She wants to see me?' Angie's voice breaks, and her heart feels as if it has collapsed. The earth beneath her quakes, and she fears she may fall, fall, fall.

It cannot be true.

'Yes, she does.' Howard is grinning now, and he finds the courage to step over, place his hands on her shoulders. 'Peggy Carter is alive. Miraculously! But she is. I was there when she woke up. I was with her since the day they found her. I wouldn't lie to you, and I wouldn't lie about this. I'm telling you the truth. I swear.'

Terror, shock and happiness hit her all at once. She widens her eyes, slowly brings her hand to her mouth.

The man is not lying.

Her legs give in, and Angie falls into his embrace, scrunching her eyes shut. She sobs into his jacket, quietly so their secrets remain hidden. She clings onto him, needs him to balance her, needs him to hold her until the pain eases, until she can understand, until she can picture in her mind that Peggy is alive.

She's alive.

Oh, God, Peggy is _alive_.

Her Peggy.

Her darling, her best friend, her _life_.

She is blessed, she is blessed, _she is blessed_.

It takes all of her strength to pull back, her fingers still digging into Howard's jacket. Her pretty face is tear-stained, red and devastated. Traumatised, beaten and delirious. She can't quite control herself. Can't really tell what she is feeling. Howard waits patiently for Angie to find her words; she wants to speak, she only has one request, one simple request.

Her voice cracks with the weight of her love.

'Take me to her, take me to her, please, let me see her.'

'I will. We'll go as soon as we can.'

And she laughs, tearful, light and joyful; laughs as she once did.


	5. 05

**author's note** : Because you've all been so wonderful to me, I decided to give you chapter five early. This one is (hopefully) much less angst-y than its predecessors. I hope you enjoy!

Please do find me on Tumblr, as well. My url is: wreckofherheart.

Until next time!

* * *

In Bloom  
 **5.**

* * *

Since awakening from her coma, Peggy is alert to the sound of her doctor's footsteps. Over time, she has managed to recognise the step rhythm of most nurses and the occasional doctor who check on their patients. And there is one nurse in particular who keeps a close eye on her. A young lady, no older than twenty-one. They've spoken briefly, but of nothing major. Peggy has always been a private woman.

Rarely does Peggy sleep. She's a light sleeper, and since Dottie's escape, Peggy has constantly been wary. This isn't paranoia. It is common sense. Peggy has been targeted in the past, and she knows that it would be unwise to ever let her guard down. Now that both of her eyes work, Peggy feels lot less vulnerable, but it's still difficult to walk, even if she does have a crutch to lean on. She is healing, though. Gradually.

A patient beside her snores loudly. Two days ago, his leg was amputated, and his screams were deafly. He deserves his rest, even if he does make a racket about it. Peggy keeps her eyes closed, and listens to the sound of one of the nurses passing her bed. She stops at the foot of one nearby, and then there's whispering. Another nurse has joined her; there's a little giggling, until they make their way out of the ward, continuing their patrol.

She guesses about an hour passes until the nurse returns.

Except, this is not a nurse.

Peggy lies still, and she listens to this person's footsteps. It is not a rhythm she recognises. They step lightly, so lightly it's tricky for Peggy to hear them. The footsteps cease, and Peggy is conscious of being watched. She holds her breath, keeps her eyes closed, pretending to be asleep. Several minutes go by, and there is still no movement from their visitor.

The visitor coughs. A man.

Other footsteps approach. These are ones she recognises. A doctor in his mid-fifties, greying hair, tired and a heavy smoker. They speak in hushed whispers––Peggy isn't able to catch a word they're saying. Other footsteps arrive, and then more. The doctor nears Peggy's bed. Peggy's heart catches. But the doctor walks straight past her bed, to the one beside her.

 _Clang_.

She hears the sound of wheels, squeaking across the cold floor.

The doctor is moving the bed away.

The bed to her right is pulled back as well, and these footsteps she doesn't recognise. Then another bed. Another. Peggy's eyes remain shut.

It's obvious what is happening.

Remove all civilians (patients). Clear the room. Home in on the target. Make sure they have no weapons. Or, as far as these cowards are concerned, make sure she's stuck in a hospital bed, partially immobilised. Peggy doesn't move. She listens to the beds being taken away, out of the ward, down the hallway.

The door shuts quietly.

A curtain is pulled, barricading the view of Peggy's bed.

She guesses two men are at her bed, one leaning down to inspect her. His breath stinks of cider. When he whispers to the man beside him, he speaks Russian. Peggy can't understand him. She remains in her fatigued state, and her muscles automatically tense when one of the men takes her wrist. He's gentle with her as he cuffs her left wrist to the bed frame, and then her right.

More Russian. The clatter of metal––equipment. She can hear the distinct sound of a syringe being squeezed, some sort of fluid squirting out of the tip. The doctor returns to the scene, and, to Peggy's fortune, he doesn't speak Russian, but English. 'Make this quick. You promise this won't hurt her? God knows she's been through enough trauma as it is.'

'Be quiet, old man,' his Russian accent colours his words. 'Agent Carter is already asleep. She won't feel anything.'

'I trust you will handle the corpse?'

'Mm-Hm.'

'Wait, wait.' A pause. 'I don't think we should kill her yet. We have a few questions to ask regarding Stark's weapon. Plus, she'll know about his location. Once we've finished asking questions, you can kill her.'

There is a long sigh. 'Fine. Hurry up.'

The man with the Russian accent walks away. Another man, heavier footsteps, comes forward, and Peggy feels his hand on her shoulder. He shakes her, to which Peggy puts on her best act, pretending to wake up from a very deep sleep. She blinks, looks at the man who's woken her up––

Instantly Peggy struggles, and pretends she's shocked to find her wrists cuffed.

'Agent Carter, please. Stay calm.'

'Enough,' the Russian spits, pushing him aside. He glares down at Peggy, and she sees the syringe balanced between his fingers. His red hair is tied in a ponytail; a scarred face, and a very piercing glare. Peggy lets out a whimper, wide eyed, and she fools him to believe she's scared. 'All right, Carter, we'll make this easy for you.' He places a hand onto the mattress and moves into her. 'Tell us where Howard Stark is. You tell us, and we won't hurt you.'

Peggy fights the handcuffs again. Her wrists dig into the metal. The Russian cocks a brow.

'You can't get away, agent, so best start talking.'

'I––I don't know what you mean!' Peggy stutters.

He slaps her across the face.

Peggy was not expecting that, but she exaggerates her surprise. The sting melts into one of her cuts, doubling the pain. She winces. 'Please, sir, I don't know where Mister Stark is. I promise.'

'I hate _lies_ , agent.'

'I don't know! I honestly haven't the foggiest idea!'

'Quiet!' He snaps. 'You'll wake the entire hospital, you cow. Come on. I know you're lying. You're one of his whores, aren't you?'

Peggy stops.

She wants to break his jaw.

Do people _really_ think she'd stoop to that level? _Howard_?!

How _dare_ he?

'In fact, I'd say his favourite,' the Russian adds, grinning at his companion. 'You two are always sneaking around together, but now it all makes sense. I know he's told you things he should not have told you about. So, spill.' No response. ' _Come on_ , Margaret, I'm making this easy for you. You answer my questions, and I'll let you go. How about that?'

She glances at the syringe.

The Russian notices her looking. Peggy speaks quickly. 'Okay, okay, I'll tell you! I'll tell you anything you want to know, but, please, don't kill me. Please don't kill me. _Please_.'

'You know, they hold in such high esteem at the SSR. You're just as pathetic as the whores you mingle with.'

Peggy watches him place the syringe aside. She notes that he is placing more weight on his left leg, than his right. The fact his right hand is bandaged, and he breathes heavily.

When he faces her again, she returns to her hysterical act.

'Anything you want! I'll give you anything you want.'

The Russian grins slyly. 'Oh, really?' He inhales deeply, eyes greedily roaming down her figure beneath the bed sheet. 'That can be arranged, my lovely. Hm. You are a pretty thing, aren't you?' He drags a chair over, and sits beside Peggy, eyes menacing. Peggy feels disgusted to be looked at this way, but she doesn't break her character. 'All right. So, where is Mister Stark?'

'Please, sir…'

'What?'

'Can I have a drink first? _Please_. I'm so thirsty.'

The Russian watches her, squinting his eyes. Peggy pulls her most sweetest expression, her eyes pleading with him to cooperate. It's the type of face any man, even the roughest, melt at. And it never fails. The Russian rolls his eyes, looks up at his companion, 'Go.' He hurries away. The Russian returns to gazing at Peggy in a rather disturbing manner. 'I see now how you managed to achieve such a high rank.' He chuckles. 'You girls are _clever_.'

She knows what he is implying, and her blood boils, but she won't give him the satisfaction of her wrath just yet.

The Russian's companion returns, a cup of water in hand. He comes over to Peggy's side, and is about to tip it towards her lips when––

'Please let me drink it with my own hands.' Peggy watches the younger man with big, adoring eyes. He glances at the Russian, then back at Peggy, and he cannot refuse. 'Please?'

He nods. The Russian groans.

'Hurry up, Fletcher,' he mutters.

Fletcher removes Peggy's handcuffs, and foolishly sets them aside. He comes closer to Peggy, helping her sit upright. 'Thank you, thank you so much,' Peggy says, and she takes the cup of water from him gratefully. The Russian and his companion watch her, and she sips for a few seconds, her eyes darting to their limbs, the way they stand, their most sensitive areas.

'You finished now, Carter?'

Peggy lowers her cup. 'Not quite.'

Fletcher yelps out when her fist smacks into his jaw. The Russian reaches for her, but he's too slow. He collapses to the side when she kicks his right leg, hitting the ground heavily. Peggy throws her cup at the doctor who just stands there uselessly. It knocks him out cold. The British agent tries her best to stand, but her feet haven't adjusted yet, and she only ends up collapsing onto the floor with her Russian friend. The Russian growls at her, clawing for Peggy's top, but she kicks him in the face.

'Learn some manners, you awful man!'

And with that, Peggy scrambles to her feet, takes one step forward, and falls splat on her tummy.

The Russian laughs. 'Look at you go!'

Peggy growls, irritated that her legs are not cooperating. For God's _sake_! She flips around onto her back, and sees the Russian crawling over to her, teeth jarred, and ready to beat her to death. Peggy scoffs, and sends her foot into his face again. 'You are repulsive!' She yells at him.

'Yeah? Well, you're a treat for me!' He grabs her ankle. Peggy struggles out of his grip, but somehow he manages to grab her other ankle, and pulls her towards him. Peggy looks up at him, wide eyed, and realises what his intentions are. Before his fingers reach the waist of her combat trousers, she spits in his eye. 'Shit!' And knees him in the crotch. The Russian glows red, his breath rushing out of him. Peggy grabs the back of his head, yanks him down and slams her forehead into his. Hard enough to knock him out. He collapses pathetically to the side.

'Men,' she scowls.

Peggy turns onto her stomach, and crawls away from the Russian, searching for something to help her walk. It is just her luck that she manages to find a pair of crutches leaning against the wall. Peggy grins, and uses her palms to manoeuvre her towards the crutches. When she reaches them, Peggy has to force herself to her feet, which is no easy task.

But she never loses to a challenge.

It takes her around five minutes to finally catch her balance, pressing herself up into the wall. She reaches for the first crutch, leaning most of weight onto it, before claiming the other. Fortunately, Peggy has used crutches before, and it doesn't take her long to get used to them. Her back hurts slightly, but she ignores the pain as she turns towards the door.

To her dismay, the Russian starts to gain consciousness again.

Peggy hobbles over, and whams her crutch into the side of his face.

He won't be waking up again anytime soon.

Before she leaves the ward, Peggy sits on the edge of her bed, and pulls on her boots. She snatches her dog tags, placing the chain around her neck. All set, she lifts herself off the bed, clinging onto the crutches, and proceeds out of the ward. As soon as she opens the door, two men whip their heads around and dash for her.

She doesn't recognise them, and they are definitely not staff.

Peggy waits until they're in reach, and sends her first crutch at the feet of one of the men. He trips, flying forward, smashing his head into the wall. The other man realises he's running into a mistake, but he's too late to change his mind. Peggy smiles at him, and she jabs her crutch into his chest, winding him badly. He collapses, and Peggy is soon down the hallway, and round the corner.

'Oi!' She hears the _click_ of a gun, and turns.

A man is aiming his pistol at her, dressed in a distinctive uniform. She doesn't recognise it. He steps closer, smiling crookedly.

'What's your name, darling?'

Peggy squares her shoulders. ' _Agent_.'

Beside her is a tray full of sharp medical equipment, ready to be washed. The man aims his gun, and if wasn't so slow, he would have shot her. Peggy, however, is too fast for him. She hits the tray of equipment, and the instruments shower into him, temporarily blinding his view.

 _Whack_!

Blood spurts from his mouth, and he loses consciousness. Peggy stabs her crutch back to the floor.

These things have certainly come in handy.

Alerted by the sound of their brawl, other men have come rushing forwards. Peggy hasn't the slightest clue who these men are or what they want her from her. But she has a hunch they're all associated with Dorothy Underwood, and that thought sets her heart racing.

Four guns are aimed at her.

'Stop right there, Carter!'

'Don't move!'

'We'll shoot!'

Peggy rolls her eyes, rather unimpressed they don't actually shoot, but instead crowd around her, as if she were nothing but a lamb being preyed on. That is their first mistake. Their second mistake is that _they do not shoot her when their target is bloody open_! Peggy decides to get things moving again.

She swings her crutch, crushing one of the men's jaws. He tumbles into another, who smacks his head to the floor. Another man runs to her, ready to knock her out with the butt of his weapon. Peggy is too busy dealing with an opponent in front, but once she's tripped him over, she retreats her right hand and smacks the man in the face.

He's stunned momentarily. She whirls around, and slams her foot into his chest. This is when Peggy realises she really shouldn't have done that. The last man standing is taken by surprise when Peggy falls backwards, losing her balance. They tumble to the floor together, Peggy landing on top of him.

'Chivalry is still alive! You are a dear,' she says cheerfully, and before he can attack her, she elbows him in the face.

Peggy steals his handgun, and, after much ado, manages to scramble back to her feet, leaning on her crutches. She needs to get out of his wretched hospital, contact the SSR, and hopefully throw these men in custody. To her relief, it is not men wanting to kill her who come running down the hallway, but two nurses, one of them being Peggy's favourite.

Both stop dead at the sight.

'Nurses,' Peggy greets. 'If you'd be so kind as to escort me to the nearest telephone, I'd be ever so grateful.'

* * *

From where he stands, binoculars in hand, Howard watches a large group of men hurry into the hospital. They are not members of the SSR, and they certainly don't look like patients. Beside him, Angie can see for herself what is happening. Only twenty minutes ago, they had left the train station, and made their way to see Peggy. Yet neither were expecting the hospital to be invaded.

Howard lowers the binoculars, jarring his teeth. 'I hope they're not after Agent Carter, but I suppose I'm pushing my luck with that.'

Angie can't believe this. _Twice_ Peggy has been confirmed dead. And now _this_? Angie sure as Hell didn't travel all of this way to be told Peggy is dead for a _third_ time. Furious and impatient Howard is just standing there, she grabs him by his collar, and yanks him forwards. 'We have to go in and help her!'

'What do you expect us to do? In case you haven't noticed, we _are_ unarmed.'

Howard is right. They have no weapons on them. In fact, all they have are the clothes on their backs. Angie exhales, and tries to think things through in a more rational manner. The mysterious men have disappeared inside the building, and no one appears to be guarding the entrance. Angie is far from a secret agent. She knows that entering an invaded hospital through the _front door_ is a stupid move, but she's not letting Peggy fight all of those men by herself.

Looking at Howard, she can see in his eyes that he is very keen on staying put for now.

Angie, on the other hand, is not a patient girl.

Well, what other choice does she have? Her father knows she has gone missing––yet again. So, if she returns home he'll probably kill her. And if she goes into this building, these men will probably kill her. Really, she doesn't have a choice. All she cares about is the fact that Peggy is in that hospital, alone, and these bastards are after her for reasons Angie knows little about.

Ah, Hell.

Angie runs down the hill, sliding gracefully through the mud, the hem of her diner dress getting sprayed with dirt. Howard calls out her name, but Angie ignores him, hurrying closer and closer to the hospital. She doesn't see anybody. Yes, she can go in! She can go in, and find Peggy, and get her out and––

'Miss!'

 _Shit_. Angie comes to an abrupt halt. A few metres away is one of the men. He hasn't aimed a weapon at her, thank God, but he's cautious. Angie decides to put her acting skills to good use.

'Oh, sir, I'm so sorry, sir!' She cries, hurrying over to him. The man takes a step back, and widens his eyes at the outburst. 'I'm out here all alone, and I'm lost! I don't know where to go. And I'm so scared. It's dark and cold, and, and I'm really, really scared, sir!'

A pause.

Suddenly, Angie bursts into tears.

The man gulps, and edges over towards her, awkwardly placing his hands on her shoulders. 'All right, Miss. All right. Uh, where––whereabouts are you from? I can help you get back home. It's okay.'

'Really? You will?!' To Angie's relief, she can see Howard out of the corner of her eye. He comes up behind the man, who is now nodding enthusiastically, delighted to be helping a poor girl in need.

'Of course. Let me––'

Howard hits him over the head.

'You owe me,' he mutters, watching the man fall to the ground.

Angie kneels down, and unbuttons the man's jacket, passing it over to Howard. 'Wear his uniform. Play the part. You can take me inside, and then if anybody asks, ya can just say I was tryin' to break into the hospital. Make up a story, but just get me in there, Mister Stark.'

'But…' Howard groans loudly, and snatches the jacket. 'This is ridiculous,' he mutters, ridding his own blazer and pulling on the man's attire. Angie snatches his handgun, and reconsiders giving it to Howard. Howard gapes at her. 'Oh, and what are you going to be doing with that?'

She shrugs, shoving it into her coat pocket. 'Dunno yet.'

'I fear Miss Carter is rubbing off on you,' Howard comments.

'That's no bad thing.'

He grins. 'I suppose not.' He cocks a brow at her. 'Very convincing, by the way. You're not an actress, are you?'

'Someday, I hope!'

'Tell me when you have your first big hit. I'll be there.'

Conscious of the heavy weapon stored safely in her pocket, Angie comes over to Howard's side, and he takes her arm, she as his pretend hostage. Together, they approach the hospital doors, swing them open and enter. And, when the doors slam shut behind them, Angie wonders if she has truly made a fatal mistake.


	6. 06

**author's note** : Warning for attempted rape in this chapter. I have very much brushed over it.

* * *

In Bloom  
 **6.**

* * *

To Angie's pleasant surprise, Howard is not that bad of an actor. Despite being an infamous genius, his uniform covers his true identity, and he's allowed through the hospital, Angie in custody. Every time she takes a step forward, she can feel the gun in her pocket, tapping against her upper thigh. It's disconcerting, but also incredibly thrilling. For the first time in her life, Angie feels quite powerful. Yet she's aware that she is, indeed, outnumbered.

Neither she or Howard will be firing bullets anytime soon. A few men guard the entrance, hoping their target might miraculously appear and they can shoot her on the spot. Howard escorts Angie passed several wards, and once they're in the clear, he lets go off her arm. A breath of relief is shared between them. Angie subconsciously feels for the gun again; it's bigger than she remembers.

'Still think this is a good idea?' Howard asks. He doesn't expect a response. Instead, he turns and faces the staircase. 'I'd suggest we split up, but if anybody sees you walking around alone, they'll get suspicious. We should stay together.' He smiles crookedly. 'I hope you don't have a problem with that, Miss. A fair share of ladies would insist that I am very good company.'

'I've had better company,' Angie teases. Howard's left eye twitches; he doesn't need to think hard on whom she's talking about.

Both hear the sound of footsteps. Immediately Howard yanks Angie closer by her sleeve, and presses her into him. A man, dressed in the same uniform as he, descends the staircase, glancing between the two. 'What're you doing?' He asks, facing Howard. There's a brief pause, in which the man's eyes travel from Howard's shoes to his neck. He doesn't recognise him.

'Saw this precious gem trying to flee,' Howard says, putting on a distinct accent. 'Couldn't have that now, could we?'

Angie mocks a whimper as he shoves her closer. The other man meets the two on the ground. 'No need. I'll take care of her.' He outstretches his hand, 'This is no place for a lady right now.'

'Ah, y'see, I got her––'

'Give me the girl.' Howard and Angie exchange a quick glance. Reluctantly, Howard releases his grip on Angie and, to his astonishment, Angie cooperates, taking one step closer to the other man. A gasp escapes her lips when he pulls her to him, a soft smile reaching his lips. Angie can feel his breath on her cheek. 'There. I'll look after her––I'm sure she won't be too much of a hassle.'

'V––Very well,' Howard stammers.

'You can go.'

'Oh.' Howard looks at Angie, who hasn't broken her character. Awkwardly, he turns around on his heel and walks down the hallway, and out of sight. Angie feels her heart pace quicken when he has disappeared. That did not go to plan. Still, maybe this man can tell her where Peggy is.

She glances at him. His smile broadens. 'There there, darling. You don't need to look so scared. Come with me.' He escorts her away. Angie realises she's trembling, but makes no effort to calm herself.

'Please, sir,' she pleads, 'Can ya tell me what's happenin'? I––I didn't mean to cause any problems. Honestly. I'm a nice girl, I don't mean no harm––'

'Don't worry, my sweet girl. We're currently looking for somebody who has––' He pauses, '––been very _naughty_.'

Angie doesn't appreciate his patronising tone. Regardless, she feigns nervousness. 'Oh, golly! Are they gonna get caught?'

'We hope so. We are excellent at this sort of thing. Before you know it, you'll be able to walk out again. This is all simple precaution, sweetheart. Ah, here.' Angie faces forwards, and her heart falls to the pit of her stomach. They are about to enter a room, and from what she can tell, there is only one way out and one way in. Her muscles tense when he escorts her inside. 'Now.'

He lets go of her. Closes the door.

'You _are_ a pretty thing.'

Angie deliberately makes her cheeks flush. She knocks her knees together, clasping her hands in front of herself, and looks up at him. 'Oh, well––I––Thank you, sir, that's sure nice of ya.'

'I'll take care of you while we search for this bad person.' He steps over, eyes greedily roaming her body. Angie doesn't move. She allows him to get nearer, until she can smell his breath. There is nothing at all strange about his smile; it appears genuine and friendly, but she has dealt with this type before.

He thinks Angie is the woman she portrays: frightened and fragile.

And, the reality is: Angie is anything _but_.

'Really good care of you.' His smile falters. 'Tell me, darling. Are you far from home?'

'I'm aways way, yeah.' Angie sighs dramatically. 'Oh, how I miss home! I miss my mama's special pies she makes every Saturdays. They tasted so good, y'know? And Daddy will always bring home treats from work––he'd spoil me rotten, he would. I miss 'em so much, it hurts me.'

'Aw. I'm very sorry. Maybe you need some company?'

'Maybe, yeah. Company's nice.'

'Mm.' He nods. 'So, why are you here, sweetheart? Visiting a friend? You don't look like a patient.'

Angie doesn't let her guard down. She produces tears in her eyes, and her lower lip quivers. 'A––Actually,' she stutters, voice wavering, 'I––I came to visit a friend, but she passed away only hours ago. I wanted to go home, and then there were all of these big, scary men everywhere and––and I dunno why I did it, sir, but I ran. I just ran, I was so scared and confused.'

He softens his expression. Angie's trick is working like a charm. 'Oh, boy.' Unlike Angie's previous encounter, he doesn't appear awkward. In fact, his confidence has spiked some. A hand slides up her arm, resting on her shoulder. Angie wants to smack it away, but she smiles sadly instead. 'Pretty gals like you don't deserve so much pain. Hey.' He tips her chin up with his finger. 'Wanna feel better? I know what'll help you, darling. You gotta trust me.'

'What, sir?' She sniffles.

'Let me show you.' His eyes fall to her lips, and he's about to lean in, but Angie retreats suddenly. The man frowns at her. 'What––?'

'Oh, Mister, you shouldn't!' She exhales heavily, as if flustered. 'You shouldn't tease me so!'

A grin. 'Haha, you are a _minx_. C'mere. I'm not teasing.'

'You first gotta promise you'll find this awful man you're tryna catch.'

'Of course! We will find her.' He stops. 'I–-I mean, _him_. We will find him, and that'll be that. Then you and I can go back to see your family; we can have one of those pies you spoke about?'

'That sounds real nice, Mister,' Angie flushes. 'Where d'you think this awful man is right now? Is they still in the hospital?'

'Yes. I last heard he is currently on the third floor; a nasty piece of work, but we'll sort of him.' He gets impatient now, and reaches over to take her hand. 'Let's forget about him, my sweet.' Angie notes that: third floor. Peggy is on the third floor. The thought makes her heart leap in her chest, and she's too distracted thinking about Peggy, thinking about the fact they may possibly meet, when the man grabs her wrist. 'I want you closer. What's your name?'

Angie comes back to her senses.

Now, she has the information she wants. She just needs to get out. But he's grabbing her wrist too tight, and her mind goes blank for a second, and then she blurts helplessly, 'Anne! M––My name is Anne.'

'That's a lovely name.'

She tries to yank her wrist out of his hand, but to no avail. Angie swallows, and steps back, but he steps closer, grin broadening. Her act begins to fade, and the fear she expresses is real. 'Get––You better let go, Mister.'

'Or what, pretty thing? You gonna hurt me?' He laughs.

'You––You ain't as nice as I thought you were!'

'Aw, honey. Don't be that way.' He snatches the collar of her diner dress, and pulls her forward. 'Lemme help you forget all the bad.' He kisses her so hard he nicks her lower lip, causing Angie to bleed. Angie's exclaim is muffled, and she slams her hands onto his chest, desperately trying to free herself.

This man is stronger than she realised. His arms wrap around her tiny frame, almost crushing her spine, and his tongue is disgusting in her mouth. She hates it. She hates him. She wants to be sick. Angie presses herself into him, finds his lower lip between her teeth and _bites_.

He screams, his lip sore and bleeding. The man pushes her away, nursing his wound. Angie slams into the wall, her head knocking into the brick. Her shoes slip on the floor, but she manages to remain balanced. Angie runs past him, but as she's about to reach for the door, he turns and yanks her back by her coat. Angie yells, hitting into his chest.

'Be a good girl now,' he whispers, hands busy at her dress.

And she thinks, _no… No. She did not come all of this way to be killed by this man. To be handled by this creep. She did not go through her war just to end up in a monster's arms. To be used._

 _She has been through Hell._

 _She has been beaten and beaten. Abused, tormented, told she was wrong and unfixable._

 _She has lived a loveless life._

 _And she will not die like this––she will not be anybody's toy, anybody's damsel in need of saving._

 _Christ, she is done with that_.

 _For she is her_ _ **own**_ _person._

Angie's cheeks redden in her fury, and when she looks up at the man practically dribbling at the sight of her, she _hates_ him.

 _Loathes him_.

Her hand reaches into her coat pocket.

The gun is gold in her palm. Freezing cold, and ugly.

His hands squeeze her breasts, his tongue in her mouth, and she juts the end of the pistol to his crotch.

Angie pulls the trigger.

* * *

While the two nurses watch the door, Peggy makes her telephone call to the SSR headquarters. Her transmission is speedy, and she's done in less than twenty seconds. The two nurses wait in silence for Peggy to finish. She leaves the telephone off the hook, and decides to ditch one of the crutches. The more she walks, the easier it gets, but it still hurts more than she'll admit.

Peggy could run and flee, but what with all of these patients, nurses and doctors, she isn't keen to. 'I have contacted my people, and they shall be appearing shortly. I wish I could say what these gentlemen want. Alas, I do not. You'll have to bear with me, I'm afraid, while I figure out what to do.' The nurses still don't say anything. Peggy leans against the table, and is finally able to catch her breath.

Maybe these men are associated with Dottie?

But why would they kill her?

Dottie got what she wanted; she obtained Howard's weapon, so why on earth would she want Peggy dead?

Unless these men are not associated with Dottie, after all?

Peggy recounts the time she was shot by _Hydra_. That was so long ago, but it still happened. Could these people possibly be _Hydra_? Peggy frowns. Well, if that is the case, then the question still stands: what do they want from Peggy, and why are they trying to kill her? Who was the Russian fiend? And why did they want to know more about Howard's weapon?

It's all so confusing! Peggy sighs, slumping her shoulders.

She has to get out of here.

These men want Peggy. Not the patients, nurses or doctors. They want Peggy, and they want a bullet through her skull.

Peggy would be foolish if she stayed where she was. She has to leave; she is in no condition to fight––not properly, at least, and she's only putting these poor nurses at risk by staying with them. 'Please, stay with your patients. Help will be with you shortly. Thank you for your assistance; I'm very much obliged.'

The nurses do not hesitate in hurrying away to their separate wards. Peggy leans into her crutch, and searches for any type of weapon she could use within the room. She discovers a screwdriver hidden away in a cupboard, a splintered ruler, documents of patients' files. Peggy decides to settle with the screwdriver. It'll be crude work, but she's done crude before.

Mind, she does have her crutch, and that is a fantastic weapon in itself. Peggy leaves the room, checks her surrounding. Once she's sure that the coast is clear, Peggy follows the signs leading towards the staircase. She's aware that there are more men within the hospital, but she can't be sure just _how_ many. Nevertheless, it's going to be hard work fleeing this damned building.

The lift is out of the question.

She takes the stairs.

 _Bang!_

Peggy freezes when she hears the gunshot. Her heart races, she can feel her pulse pound in her ears, and she clings to the crutch. Pain shoots from the bottom of her spine, but she ignores it, focussing on any other noises. There is none for at least a minute, until she hears a door open. Slam shut.

Footsteps.

Peggy inhales, and reaches for her screwdriver.

This man has a gun on him. He has already shot, and God knows if he'll just shoot her on the spot. But she isn't taking any chances. Peggy quietly descends the stairs until she reaches the second landing. The footsteps of her victim slow. Peggy stops, pressing her back to the wall where she's out of sight. Then, the footsteps continue, light and steady.

Stop.

Peggy holds her breath.

She needs this man to walk in her direction, so she can leap out and stab him with the screwdriver.

Please, please, make this quick and easy for her.

The footsteps do not sound again. Peggy listens closer. She can hear him breathing, heavily, hurried––as if panicking. His breathing is particularly light, as if he were an adolescent, or even a child.

Then it hits: this man is a woman.

Dottie?

Peggy can't wait any longer. She's ready to duck when the bullet is fired as she turns on her heel and faces her assailant.

'Good Christ!' She gasps, the screwdriver falling out of her grip, bouncing off the floor. Peggy feels a shudder crawl up her damaged spine, and she collapses into the wall, shaking at the sight of who is before her. 'Why the Devil are you here?' Her words may as well have fallen on deaf ears.

There is a gun in Angie's right hand, limply pointed downwards. Blood splattered across her coat. And her small body trembles viciously, her pretty, sweet face pale and barely recognisable. She looks at Peggy, looks at the woman she has dreamed of meeting again for months, and her heart feels as if it has been yanked from its strings, and _twisted_.

Peggy.

She's looking at Peggy.

And Peggy is breathing.

Peggy is alive.

'Is it really you?'

When Peggy hears her voice, tears sting her eyes, and she clenches her fists, desperate to maintain her balance. But she can't stop staring at the blood, at that _beastly gun in her darling's hand_. Oh, God. _Oh, dear God_. What has Peggy made of this wonderful lady? What has she done to her?

She can't answer.

She wants to burst into tears. Peggy wants to cry. It's all too much.

Every part of her _pinches_. Her body can't take the strain, and she exclaims in agony. The gun hits the floor. Peggy's clutch clatters out of her hand. Suddenly, Angie is up against her, holding Peggy desperately, clinging to her, pulling at Peggy's white top, and pressing their bodies together, so tight, so close, _so close they can't breathe anymore, but what does it matter?_ They are together. God is on their side! _God is on their side for they are together at last!_

Peggy leans into her, lets Angie squeeze the dear life out of her, their breaths ragged, hands pulling and grabbing at each other's clothes, holding each other just too, too tight.

Finally Angie does cry.

She sobs silently, pressing her face to Peggy's neck.

'My love,' Peggy whispers, the pain beginning to ease. 'Are you hurt?'

Angie can't let her go; she _won't_ let her go. Her hands cling to Peggy's top as she faces her properly, eyes wide and teary, face flushed with joy and adrenaline. 'No, no, I'm not, but I––' They glance down at the blood on her coat, now printed onto Peggy. 'Peggy, I did something so bad, I––'

'Shh, shh, please, my darling, don't.' Peggy claims Angie's face between her hands, and her touch is so tender, so _real_. Angie can feel her. Can feel the warmth of her hands, and she needs more of her, she needs to embrace Peggy again, needs to feel her soft lips on hers. She needs, _needs_ her. 'I'm sure whatever you did was necessary. Oh, you poor thing, what am I to do?'

'I came to find you. We need to get out. Mister Stark is with me; he––he went off somewhere.'

'Howard?' Peggy widens her eyes. 'Howard is with you?'

Angie has lot her breath. She opens her mouth to speak, but she can't. She can't. She sees Peggy's beautiful, bruised face, and feels a terrible desire to hold her again. Angie cuddles Peggy, lips pressed to her cheek, one hand stroking through Peggy's hair, 'I'm so sorry!' She cries. 'I let you leave me, and I'm sorry, Peggy––I never should've done that, I'm––'

'I'm sorry too.' Peggy's voice is considerably calmer, but her eyes are wild as she forces Angie to meet her gaze. 'We shall talk. I promise. But not here. We can't leave without Howard––do you know where he might have gone?'

'He's on the ground floor, I think,' Angie replies, rushed and frantic as she finds Peggy's hand.

'Okay.' Peggy looks Angie in the eye, and her voice is steady. 'Now, I need you to listen to me. I want you to retrieve the gun you just dropped, and I want you to use it _only_ if you need to, all right?' Angie is about to object. She can't shoot another person! Not again, not again! But Peggy interjects, 'My darling, I hope you won't use the gun, but if we are to get out alive, I need you to protect us both. I can only do so much in my current physical state. I need you to help me.'

Peggy squeezes Angie's hand, and her face is gentle, sincere. All she sees is Angie, her innocence, her regret and her love. And it's all Peggy needs to keep moving. Her thumb passes Angie's engagement ring, and Angie stiffens. But Peggy doesn't even look, as if she expected it to be so, as if she _knew_.

She affectionately places a hand on Angie's cheek.

And, just like that, Angie stops trembling.

She isn't scared anymore.

'Have you got my back?'

Angie's answer is automatic; she has known it since the day she first laid eyes on her.

'You don't have to ask, English.'


	7. 07

In Bloom  
 **7.**

* * *

It's times like these when Howard wishes he didn't cower before strong women. Despite appearances, Angie has a sharp tongue, and he regrets letting her get away with the only weapon. Because, right now, he could really use one. After trying to discover Peggy's whereabouts, he stumbles upon five men in uniform, all speaking in quick, hushed Russian.

The occasional sentence he is able to catch. None of the men notice him as he walks past, a panicked skip in his step. Then he hears his name; "Margaret Carter" soon following afterwards. Howard lingers, pretending to inspect the walls, all the while his ears alert to the conversation behind him. Another voice soon joins. Howard peers over his shoulder. A hefty man has shown, his voice deep and rattly, cutting through the conversation.

Clearly, he is a commanding officer of some sort, because all the men have turned to attention.

Once again, Howard is subjected to Russian, but he widens his eyes when he hears one name in particular––Dorothy. The hefty man then clicks his tongue, and uses a Russian name instead, one Howard can't pronounce. It begins with Y, regardless, and Howard realises the name Dorothy isn't in fact Dorothy's name at all––it's the name beginning with Y which has already slipped his mind.

What they say about the name beginning with Y leaves Howard gawping at the crowd like a fool.

Because the name beginning with Y is in possession of Mister Stark's weapon, and that wasn't the plan.

Because the name beginning with Y tried to kill Agent Carter before she ran away, and that wasn't the plan.

Because the name beginning with Y isn't their ally, after all.

It's the name beginning with Y they're seeking. They had hoped she might be in this hospital, intending to finish Peggy off. Unfortunately, that doesn't seem the case. Now they want Peggy, so she can answer their questions, and then finish her off _themselves_.

Howard can't believe his ears. So, all this time, _none of this_ had anything to do with Dorothy Underwood?

The commanding officer spots him staring, and then the group turn to Howard Stark with a look which can only mean bad news. Howard realises he's in trouble, and straightens his shoulders, clicking his heels together. The hefty man walks over to Howard, eyes small, summing him up. Then his eyes land on his face, and there's an uncomfortable amount of time while the man studies his appearance.

One of the men behind him has unclipped his holster.

The commanding officer grabs at Howard's name tag attached to his breast pocket. 'Ackermann.' His English is slurred and slow. 'How very funny. I don't remember Ackermann wearing a moustache.'

'No?' Howard returns to his accent from before. 'I thought I'd try out a new style,' he strokes his moustache, 'Not too bad, right?'

The man glares at him. 'You're not Ackermann.'

'Oh, yes, I am!'

'Oh, no, you're not!'

'Oh, yes I––' Howard stops, realising this is getting him nowhere. When he looks over the man's shoulder, he's rather horrified to discover four guns are now staring at him. That damn Angela had better be using her gun to good to use. Thanks to her need to be Miss Heroine, he'll probably die here. And there could not be a more humiliating death.

Especially for the brilliant and infamous Howard Stark.

The disguise has been foiled.

'Listen,' Howard says carefully, 'I mean no harm. Please, go about your business and I'll stay out of your––' The commanding officer yanks off his cap. '––way.'

'Ah-ah. Well, if it isn't Mister Stark,' he grins slyly. 'That saves us a trip around the world in order to find you.'

'Mister Stark?' He plays dumb, 'Who's that?'

'How about you tell us where your lovely lady is. I thought you were smart, Stark. Didn't you know ladies like her _always_ have ulterior motives? You must have been quite useful to her.'

'I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about,' Howard laughs. 'And even if I did, you wouldn't hear a damn thing from me.'

'No problem.' Another gun is pressed to his forehead. 'You're useless to me anyway.'

'I wouldn't do that, if I were you.'

'Yeah?'

'Yes.' Howard nods, unnerved. 'You should know, sir, that help is on its way. You are terribly outnumbered, not that I sympathise. Also, killing _me_? I _am_ Howard Stark. The greatest inventor to have ever lived, although I do hate to brag. Do you honestly believe you can shoot me and live harmoniously for the rest of your life?' He cocks a brow. 'You're not the only one who's after me. If others find out you have my head on your desk, bullets will rain in through your window.'

The gun wavers a little, but the man doesn't lower it. Not yet.

He eyes Howard suspiciously, processing what he has said. Howard grins crookedly. 'Dare I mention the wrath of Agent Carter?' He shakes his head, tutting. 'Oh, dear, oh dear. You haven't heard the stories? They say she can destroy an entire battalion with her own bare hands.'

This causes an uproar of laughter.

'You don't believe me? Well, why not find out for yourself?' He steps closer to the gun. 'I'll join you in Hell, regardless, and you can tell me all about it. They say her eyes turn red in her fury.' As a matter of fact, these stories are _partially_ true, but for the sake of exaggeration, Howard has, indeed, exaggerated. Peggy had better be grateful he's speaking of her in such a high manner seconds before his own death. 'I'm sure you've met great soldiers, but none quite like she.'

'She's a woman,' he spits. 'What's she gonna do?'

'And that, sir, is exactly why you should be very cautious about what you intend to do next.' He glances at the gun, then back at the man again.

The gun is withdrawn, as are the others.

'I'll let you go, but, first, you will take us to her. Where's she hiding?'

'If I had found her, do you honestly think I'd still be mingling with you lovely gentlemen?'

The man flushes a little, because he has a point.

But Howard has embarrassed him which has, in turn, spoiled his ego. 'Get him. Lock him up somewhere.'

'Hold on a sec––' A fist meets his jaw, blood exploding from his lower lip, 'Ow! _Ow_.' Three men hurry over and grab his arms, yanking them painfully behind him. 'This is entirely unnecessary!' Howard insists, only to receive another punch to the face. He could _really_ use that gun right now.

'And I couldn't be less frightened by your daft whore––'

They hear it before they see it.

A bullet rips through the commanding officer's skull. Blood showers across the men, and they watch helplessly as their commanding officer sinks to his knees and collapses to the side. Howard stiffens when the man next to him is knocked back from a bullet. The man to his left yells out as his knee is bitten by metal, and from the corner of Howard's eye, it looks as if his head explodes.

One of the remaining men rushes forward, and flips backward when a bullet stabs his heart.

Howard turns his head away when the two last men let him go and try to shoot at what is shooting them.

A blaze of bullets escape their guns.

Their target ducks for cover. When the men reload, Howard dashes forwards and elbows one in the temple, knocking him down. The other man turns to shoot him, but Howard kicks him in the groin, causing him to double over. Howard is left stunned when a small figure comes up from behind and drags the man down by his collar. He splatters onto the floor, winded.

Before Howard addresses the small figure, he comes over and slams his heel into the man's face. He falls back, unconscious.

'Phew.' He turns to Angie, who's slightly out of breath, pale in the face and wide eyed at what she's just done. 'I sincerely hope it wasn't _you_ who shot all of those men, sweetheart.'

'Leave her be.'

Howard's eyebrows shoot up his forehead when he hears Peggy's voice. Whipping around, he sees his friend balanced on a crutch, leaning most of her weight to her right. In her hand is the handgun she has been using to shoot down the men who tried to attack her.

One: Howard is _relieved_ Angie hasn't turned into a bloodthirsty devil.

Two: Howard is _relieved_ and _horrified_ to witness Peggy _alive_ , on her feet, idly holding a weapon in her hand.

This woman is mad.

'Angie, thank you,' Peggy says, groaning a little from the pain in her back.

The younger woman is surprisingly quiet. In fact, she hasn't uttered a single word. Howard watches as Angie hurries over to Peggy's side again, taking one arm and slinging it around her shoulders in order to take most of her weight. Peggy is clearly in a great deal of agony.

Howard snatches the weapons from the men, and tucks one into the waist of his trousers.

'My dear Peg, I'm so happy to see you alive!' Howard remarks, placing a hand on Peggy's shoulder. 'I'm guessing your lovely friend found you?' He glances at Angie for confirmation, but she still doesn't say a word. In fact, her eyes are glazed over with something close to fear. Howard can't read her. He looks at Peggy, who's flushed in the face, bags under her eyes, her dog tags hanging from her neck.

It doesn't take him long to realise the issue. Poor Angie has committed something she really should not have committed. Howard decides to quickly change the subject.

'What's the plan?'

'I suppose it was naive of me to believe _you_ would have one.'

'Whenever I _do_ suggest a plan, you always snap at me because my plans never work. Apparently. So, I ask you: what's the plan?'

Peggy repositions herself, her hand gripping onto her clutch tighter than before. Angie watches her with that same disturbing silence, and Howard has never felt so compelled to hold a woman before. In fact, the last time he felt this compelled was when Steve was about to be injected with the serum. Thank God he restrained himself then, and he will restrain himself now.

It's that innocence, that fear––that shattering decency, waiting to be dispelled. Peggy is very much aware of Angie's condition. She protectively clings to her coat, eyeing Howard with a suspicious look which isn't needed. Howard has no intention of acting on impulse, even if he appears that way.

'I've contacted the SSR,' Peggy finally says. 'They should be with us shortly. In the meantime, I suggest we stay out of sight. Unfortunately, due to my physical state, I can't move around as fast as I'd like to. You'll either have to bear with me, or run ahead of me. The latter is probably wisest.'

'No,' Angie's voice startles Howard. Her voice is still very much the same, but it _trembles_. Holding back something awfully heavy. 'D'you think we went all this way just to leave y'behind?'

Bless Angie and her tiny temper. Howard twitches a smile at Peggy's resignation. It takes a lot to win an argument with Peggy, but Angie doesn't have to try. He catches sight of Angie's engagement band, and his heart sinks. Blunting his expression, Howard nods, 'I agree––' Peggy glares at him, so he grins nervously, adding, 'Hey, don't get angry at me! You owe me: I saved your behind.'

'Technically, _Angie_ saved my behind, thank you _very much_.'

It's the sound of hurried footsteps which interrupt their quarrel. Angie reaches for Peggy's top, pulling her forwards, and all three of them manage to find a room, and hide out of sight. No doubt their gunfire was heard by most of the hospital. Fortunately no one enters the room; for the moment, they're safe.

Howard stays by the door, popping his head up every now and again to peer through the glass.

Peggy is more than grateful to be relieved from standing. Rather ungracefully, she drops the crutch and slides to the floor where Angie meets her, still clinging onto her top. Howard looks away, respecting their privacy.

Agony is contorted in her expression as Peggy presses a hand to the lower part of her back. Angie's hands are on her, on her arms, her shoulders, her waist, as she tries to think of ways to ease the pain. 'D'you need to stretch out? Lie down? D'you wanna lie down?'

'Darling, please. I'm fine.'

'The Hell you are,' Angie growls. 'We ain't moving anywhere until you stop wincing like that.'

Peggy chuckles breathily. Angie frowns. 'You are sweet when you're in one of your moods.'

'Moods?' Angie's fury spikes, but she's so terribly precious, Peggy just thinks she's adorable. 'I'm not _moody_. You're just _impossible_.' Her words have lost their American accent. Her Italian influence has started to ooze through, and Peggy's smile broadens. Whenever Angie is angry, stressed and all-around panicky, her Italian accent colours her words.

It's funny. Even after all this time, Peggy is still learning something new about her.

'And you are nonsensical.' Angie cocks a brow at that word. 'Honestly, dear, I need only rest. My legs are a little tired, that's all. Now.' Peggy takes Angie's left hand. Purposefully. 'Are you all right?' She softens her voice to a whisper, 'I understand you're quite shaken, darling. Let me assure you that whatever you did was absolutely necessary. You cannot be blamed.'

However, Angie is too busy focussing on Peggy's hand holding hers. Too busy focussing on the band around her fourth finger. Too busy thinking about her father and Henry and her _life_. The fact that if she is witnessed coming home with her English lover _again_ , she will be sent to one of those hospitals where they inject you with horrible things and make you do humiliating and horrid things and where it's just so, so, _so_ horrifying and scary.

'We'll get out of here. Think things through from there, all right?'

She recalls that man, the one she shot.

Angie's body shudders. She doesn't feel good. She doesn't feel good at all. Oh, Christ, she's going to be _sick_. She's going to vomit. Angie retreats her hand from Peggy's, trembling and pale. Peggy widens her eyes and tries to reach for her, but Angie shrugs off her hand.

Why did she come here? Why? Why would she be that stupid? What did she expect to happen? That she'd find Peggy, save her life, and then continue as if everything were normal? How can she? How can she do that?

It's unbearable. This whole thing is _torture_. Whenever she so much as _looks_ at Peggy, it feels as if pincers are at her heart, nipping away the flesh, _slowly_ ; that her lungs are being _squeezed_ , squeezed so tightly her chest burns, and she loses her breath. Angie is _suffocating_ whenever she looks at Peggy, and corroding away into nothing but grey _dust_ whenever Peggy isn't near.

She wants to cry. She wants to hit something. She wants to throw a tantrum. She wants to yell at Peggy, slap her across the face for leaving her like that without a fight. She wants to grab her by her collar, push her into the wall, slap her again for dying on her _twice_ , slap her until her cheeks are inflamed and then she wants to kiss her. Kiss her until she's maddened by her love for this woman, kiss her until her lips are broken and torn, kiss her until she can no longer breathe and Peggy's love eventually _drowns_ her. She wants to kiss her, kiss her, kiss her and love her and _be_ hers.

She wants to throw her ring into the embers of her rage. She wants to grab a knife and stab herself in the heart because death will surely be more _pleasurable_ than this Hell she is in.

Angie decides that last one is ridiculous. She's been reading too much Shakespeare.

But everything else, everything about Peggy, rings true.

Peggy turned away. Peggy looked at her, loved her, touched her, and then _she turned away_. Peggy walked into the jaws of death, its teeth sinking into her flesh, and Angie was told she died. Angie was sent a telegram, a _personal_ telegram, that Margaret Anne Carter, the woman she is currently facing, is _dead_. That she is gone, seemingly _evaporated_ into thin air.

Peggy walked away and fooled Angie into believing she was gone forever.

Tears burst from Angie's eyes and she slaps Peggy so hard across the face the entire room echoes.

Howard gapes in horror.

'Damn you, Peggy! Just _damn you_!' Angie grabs Peggy by her collar, and shakes her wildly, enraged and weeping a river of tears, 'How thick is that _skull_ a'yours?! I'd do _anything_ for you, even shootin' a guy where the sun don't shine, and I'd do it for _you_. That's what you do to me! That's what you've _made_ of me––I came all this way for _you_. Even though you abandoned me, you didn't want me no more! You _tricked_ me! You made me cry over your _corpse_ again, and I hate, _hate_ you so much right now, Peggy. I really don't like you right now, I––'

Angie retreats, turns away, and violently exclaims with tears, dropping her face into her hands.

Somehow, Peggy finds her feet, her left cheek red and sore from Angie's assault. It throbs with pain, but it is nothing compared to the rip shredding through her body. Peggy's lower lip quivers, and she's lost for words, staring helplessly at the woman she's fallen so deeply for. Peggy has always been a woman of action. She _does_. She is a doer, but every single trait she is praised for has been snatched from her possession and all that's left is a timid, cowering girl.

That is what Angie's heartbreak reduces her to.

Howard hasn't moved from where he's crouched, and wisely decides to just stare at the door.

Unlike him, though, Peggy cannot decide _anything_.

She can't decide on whether to let Angie cry. Let her weep. _Let her go_. She can't decide on whether to apologise, or come up and hold her, like she used to when they were together, when it was all right. When they were encased in each other, wrapped in the shadows of their own sinful love. She can't decide if she has ever loathed herself now more than ever.

And, bizarrely, Steve's face flashes in her mind and hot tears scald her cheeks. It was Steve who led her out of the Japanese camp, and it was Angie who led her to safety. It was those two, together, who saved her life and Angie will never know just how _important_ she is. How crucial she is, how Peggy regrets walking away, how Peggy _wishes_ she could take her hand and belong to her.

Peggy squeezes her eyes shut. She wipes her arm across her eyes, trying her best to rid of any stray tears, but they just keep coming. Her heart is oozing with poison, killing her.

There's too much to say, too little time.

Too little words for such powerful thoughts and emotions which crush her whole.

'Who is he?' Peggy demands, her voice not reflecting her feelings. She's brilliant at that. Masking her voice with the _chill_ of her heart. 'The man you promised to wed.'

Angie turns to her, eyes sore and puffed from crying. Angry tears roll down her cheeks, dripping off her chin, and she hisses at her. 'A _good_ man,' she retorts bitterly, ''Cos not all of us have a choice, Peggy. Not all of us can run free and do whatever they want.' Her Italian accent makes her words more difficult to understand, but Peggy hears each syllable.

'I can't exactly run free,' she snaps.

Angie laughs, because nothing about this is funny. Nothing about this is kind and sweet and memorable. Nothing about this is about _them_. They're arguing, glaring at each other, and, yet, they cannot withstand the heat, the words they spit at each other. _They aren't like this_.

Peggy wants to cry harder at that point.

Angie laughs at her.

She laughs _at her_.

Raking her hands through her hair, Angie jars her teeth, and struggles to breathe. Her voice pours out with her grief, and Peggy stiffens into silence, completely lost and defeated.

'I love you. I love you, Peggy, and I can't ever stop loving you.' Angie gasps, and starts to shake again, clasping her hands together. 'Even when you walked away, I loved you then––I can't _stop_.'

'I'm sorry.' Peggy wants to slap herself now. Sorry? She's _sorry_? That's all she can say? _I'm sorry_? God, if Steve _were_ actually here, he'd be ashamed of what Peggy has turned into. In fact, Steve won't even recognise her. Christ. Peggy can't even recognise _herself_. 'I'm sorry,' she says again. Stupid, _stupid_. 'I'm sorry, I am, I'm sorry for everything I've done to you.'

They may as well have shot each other.

Peggy has more to say. To whisper, to tell her.

 _I love you, too._

 _You're my life. You're everything that I think about._

 _Marry me._

 _Take me._

 _I want to be yours._

 _Love me, still._

 _Don't give us up, my darling. I beg of you._

Peggy says nothing.

It's Howard who hears somebody approaching. He turns away from the two women, sighing out, and rises slightly. Cocking the gun in his hand, he waits for their intruder to appear. Peggy and Angie have fallen into silence, apart and yet so close; he can feel their warmth from where he stands.

Their intruder shows. Almost on instinct, Peggy goes for her weapon.

'Wait,' Howard says, holding up his hand.

Peggy furrows her brows, and glances over to Angie who's concentrating on the door. The agent steps over in her direction, and follows her line of gaze. Howard straightens properly, and exhales in relief, opening the door.

An SSR agent steps into the room.

He glances at Howard, a scowl written on his lips, and then sees Peggy.

The effects of Angie's words have taken a toll. But apparently go unnoticed to those blind from their war.

'Agent Carter,' he grins. 'It's good to see you're still standing.'


	8. 08

In Bloom  
 **8.**

* * *

Most of the men who invaded the hospital have managed to escape the claws of the SSR. Those that have been caught will be sent into custody, questioned and possibly tortured. Although that latter piece of information will not be shared and, if queried about, denied. The SSR don't discuss torture, they refuse to acknowledge it, but what happens beyond the transparent wall is of no civilian's business.

An SSR agent escorts Angie out of the building. She feels light-headed, dizzy, and this agent is big and rough with her as he drags her away. Her shoes are wet, her diner uniform dirty with mud, and she can still feel that _bastard's_ hands on her face, on her body as he gripped her, devilish and hungry. And her hand stings from the slap she gave Peggy; she can still see her shock, her devastation; can still see her hobbling on that wretched crutch, torn body, those unholy dog tags around her breakable _neck_.

Before all eyes turned to him, Howard fled.

At the train station, the SSR agent abandons her, and informs her to wait for the next train. She is forbidden to speak of the events; the tiniest word let out, and she shall be arrested. Angie has no intention of spilling their secrets. She holds herself, gripping to her sleeves, the breeze cold and biting on her cheeks. She wants to go home, throw up, keep throwing up until there's nothing left inside her.

She wants to get rid of it all; everything. She wants to get rid of her father, her brother; she wants to get rid of Peggy, her kisses, her lies, her gentle words; she wants to get rid of anything, _anything_ , that has influenced her pitiful life. What she wants is her theatre, her acting. She wants _normalcy_. Whatever that is, and maybe a husband will offer her that. All she knows is that Peggy can't. Peggy has proved she is dangerous, she is not good for her; Peggy Carter isn't the hero she thought she was, and Angie only has herself to blame.

The train arrives, hurried in the wind, and no one casts an eye at the diner girl, the hem of her skirt dirty, her cheeks flushed and her coat splattered with blood. They don't assume anything of her. They don't _look_ at her. Angie sits at the end of the carriage, by the window, looks down at her hands, then at the blood. She clutches onto the dry splotch, pulling at the fabric. She catches her breath, soothes her heart.

Murder is written in her soul. She has done something bad.

Really, really bad.

'Is this seat taken?'

'No,' Angie replies, eyes on the window.

Somebody sits beside her, and Angie instantly recognises her stranger. The girl widens her eyes in horror, and whips her head around. Peggy dons a heavy trench coat, possibly loaned to her by an SSR agent. It hides her wounds, the blood––she looks like a soldier. Like any regular soldier. Nobody notices. Nobody cares. Except Angie, who can't stop staring at her, who can't believe Peggy has had the audacity to follow her.

Angie folds her arms, shuffles further away from the woman, and looks away, determined to ignore her. Peggy notices.

However, she has no patience to try. She's sore, worn out, and defeated.

From the corner of her eye, Angie watches her previous lover remove her gloves. Her skin is dry, raw; Peggy hasn't been taking care of herself, and Angie wishes it didn't hurt, knowing that Peggy abuses her own body. She loves others too much, thinks for others too much; spends so little time on her own happiness, she forgets what is truly important. _Who_ is truly important. Maybe that's why she walked away.

Because while Peggy may have had lovers in the past, she doesn't _know_ what it is to be one. She doesn't understand the concept of trust. Not the obvious sense. Not the trust one would share with comrades. In fact, not even the trust one _would_ share with a friend or lover. A different form of trust. The trust which two people cannot allow to blossom in public eye, which must be whispered, kept hushed. The type of trust which is a secret, which only two people possessing a very special bond can maintain.

Peggy doesn't understand it; she doesn't _want_ to.

The agent winces suddenly. She straightens, pressing a hand to her waist. Angie turns to her, softening her expression. Clearly she can't keep her silent treatment going for very long. Not when Peggy is in obvious pain, and requires medical attention. Peggy manages to soothe the pain, but it's still agony. She leans back into her seat, holding her breath.

Angie has moved closer; she wants to touch her, touch the wound; do what she did before they made love for the first time. The very memory is like a hit to the face, and she stops, returning to her aggressive manner. Peggy exhales slowly, and her hand slips from her waist, resting on her leg. She's tense all over, but trying her best to hide the issue. She's not the type who enjoys being fussed over.

'What shall you tell him?' Peggy asks.

Angie hopes she's talking to somebody else. Of course she's not. Angie chews on her the inside of her lower lip, and gives in. She can't ignore her. That doesn't mean she will _look_ at her, though. 'Who?' She knows who, but playing dumb is her only weapon right now.

'Your father. You have been absent for some time now. I doubt he'll be pleased upon your return.'

'Why d'you care?' Angie snaps, livid.

Peggy looks at her sharply. Angie can feel her gaze, her sternness, and immediately regrets her previous tone. 'I have always cared.' Angie's shoulders slump, she closes her eyes and her throat narrows. 'I never stopped caring, even if you assume otherwise. I ask because I fear for your safety. You have no need to act defensive, especially with me.'

'Don't be scared,' Angie whispers. Tears sting her eyes, and she wipes them with the back of her sleeve. 'I don't want you scared anymore.' She still can't look at her, keeps her eyes on the window, watching the trees and rain flurry past. 'I lived my whole life bein' scared, Pegs; I don't wanna drag you along.'

'I'm not the type to be _dragged_.' Peggy pauses. 'I understand if I have upset you, but you must hear my side of things.' Angie still doesn't turn, but Peggy knows she's listening. 'Your father confronted me at a very fragile time. I could have fought for you, and you could have fought for me as well. We both stood our ground, don't you remember? We _both_ walked away. You wanted me to go, and I didn't know what other options I had. I also had very little time to make my decision. I chose your happiness.'

Peggy faces forwards, nervously picking at her glove.

'You are not safe with me. I have a habit in losing those that I am close to. In the past, I have lost so many, and I was terrified that, one day, you may fall victim to my curse. I lost Steve, and that, in itself, was agony. I can't lose you.' She swallows. 'Your father will keep you safe. That I am sure of. At least, he, out of everybody you and I know, will keep you _safest_. I could do nothing. I could not offer you a home, I could not offer you food or drink. Angie, I couldn't offer you _myself_. I was sent away for an undetermined amount of time, and I didn't know what else to do. I didn't know _what_ to do.'

'I don't need protecting, Peggy.'

'I never said that you did, but you do not deserve death, and maybe that is all I can ever give you.'

'Stop talkin' like that,' Angie's left eye twitches. Tears are trickling down her cheeks again. She huddles up closer to the window. Every single word Peggy speaks is a crush to her chest; hearing her side of the story shattered Angie's heart all over again. There is truth in what she has said, and Angie understands––of course––why she turned her back on her. Because, honestly, Angie would have done the same.

But it's not that.

It's not that which drives Angie mad.

That time, when Peggy left, that was it. That was their final good bye. That telegram, which Angie had no right in receiving, was their official departure. Angie had forced herself to settle in the fact they would meet again, beyond Heaven's gates. At least, there, they would be together, they would smile together, and everything would be as it should. Angie could, at least, be rest assured that Peggy was better off up in the skies.

She was made a fool of, again. The amount of times Angie has cried over Peggy, over Peggy's own woes, over Peggy's death, over the _woman_. Angie cannot live a life like that; constantly trying to balance herself on an uneven, slippery platform. That is what it's like with Peggy: unbalanced, uncertain––everything is rocky.

But when she is _with_ Peggy, when it is just them, Angie is the happiest girl alive.

Peggy _is_ safe. Peggy _is_ warm. Peggy is _perfect_. Broken and tainted by her past, but pure and open in her love––she is everything Angie could ever have, want, need. She helps her in a way no other person can. She helps her love _herself_ , she helps her understand that her disease is not a disease at all. She helps her in knowing that she deserves more; she _deserves_ more than what very little has been shared to her.

She does not deserve her father's beatings.

She does not deserve her brother's abandonment.

And she does not need to be fixed.

'I thought I'd never see you again.'

A child may have uttered these tiny, vulnerable words.

Peggy's heart stops. Colour drains from her cheeks, and she looks at the younger woman, who still has her back faced to her. Angie is shuddering in her seat, grasping onto herself, desperate to maintain her composure, but she's crumbling before her, effortlessly, and it's humiliating and irritating and––

––breathless.

Peggy flicks her gaze away.

For the next twenty minutes, they sit together, close, and yet so _apart_. Neither speak. Their confessions riddle in their minds, sink into their hearts, and rest there. They need to free their tortured heads for a moment, and silence is their only remedy. Peggy notices the red splatter across Angie's coat, and her face contorts in pain. She doesn't know what Angie did in order to find her, how much of her own morals she had to shatter in order to save Peggy's life. She doesn't know just how much Angie loves her.

However much that may be, Peggy is certain Angie's feelings are not unreciprocated. The poor girl. What has Peggy done?

So, she shreds apart their distance, and touches Angie's hand.

Angie snaps her eyes at her, but Peggy remains undisturbed. Angie does not reject her when Peggy holds her hand tighter, bringing it closer to her lips, before leaving a fragile, soft kiss in her palm.

Still nothing is said. Angie can see the mark on Peggy's cheek where she attacked her, and her heart bursts. Her palm, hand, arm, every part of her body reacts to Peggy's feathered kiss and she stiffens in her hold. Angie's eyes water when Peggy clings to her hand with both of hers, before levelling their gaze. If they were to apologise, vocally, it would be entirely unnecessary. They don't want to fight, and so they shan't.

'Your hands are cold,' Angie murmurs. Peggy doesn't respond. She brushes her fingers across Angie's knuckles, her finger stopping at her band. They both lose their breath, and Angie tightens her hold on Peggy. 'His name's Henry.' Now that their is a name to attach the ring with, Peggy is eased a little. 'He's good to me, Pegs. He's sweet on me, takes care a'me.' She wishes she were lying, but it's all honest.

'Do you love him?'

'I dream a'lovin' him.' She loosens her grip. '… I'm no good at that.'

'Does he love you?'

'Maybe. He says he does. I dunno.'

That answer satisfies Peggy. She sighs. 'Well.' Their hands are separated, and Angie feels a cool rush, 'As long as he is kind to you.'

'Peggy?' Angie leans closer, eyes on her lips, and she nearly does kiss her. Nearly. She whispers, so quiet, Peggy can only just hear, 'You gotta promise me you'll find a man; somebody nice and handsome. You can't live alone.'

It's endearing, even if it hurts. 'Maybe some of us are meant to live alone, dear.'

Angie frowns at her. 'You're not.'

'I don't want anybody,' Peggy replies bluntly. 'Nobody else.' She blinks, and meets Angie's gaze. _Except you._

If the wedding band were hers, if it were Peggy's, delicately slipped onto Angie's finger, rushed and hurried in the dark of night, when no eyes can pry on them––if it were theirs, if they were allowed their love––

Angie's breath comes out quick, gaze downcast. She's so close, so near, Peggy can touch her if she wants; she can touch her, feel her heartbeat against her palm. Embrace in her warmth, to be held and wanted.

'I'm sorry I hurt you,' Angie says, lowering her lips quivering. 'I slapped you,' she reaches over to touch Peggy's bruised cheeks, then reconsiders.

'I deserved to be slapped.'

'Peggy.'

'Sometimes, I… I associate you with Steve. I forget you're not _completely_ like him. Steve was, well, easy to push around, should I say? He wasn't a wet blanket, but he followed my orders, he trusted me, and then, gradually, he grew more and more independent, with his own ideas, his own commands. I let him run free. Which… which is how I lost him. I should have put my foot down when I ought to have done. I allowed love to blind me, and I _never_ allow _any_ emotion to blind me from my work.'

Angie says nothing, but watches her, blue eyes light and pretty.

'He wasn't a bloodthirsty character. Neither am I, but he, too, was a soldier, and he did what he had to do for the sake of war. As soldiers, we can't mourn over the deaths of our enemies, nor the loss of our innocence. That is why I pushed you. I apologise, Angie. I underestimated how much your act would have effected you, but I stand by my word that whatever you did with your gun, I am certain it was necessary.'

'I shot him.'

Peggy doesn't bat an eye. 'All right.'

'And he tried to––' Angie's voice breaks. She stiffens, and looks away. '––he did things to me. Made me wanna do things; I didn't like him, and… and I was just––I _hated_ him, and all I could think 'bout was––' _My father._ That is who she associated that beast with; with the man who she loves so dearly, but who would beat her to death if she so much as stepped out of line. And now she is returning to him, muddy dress, bloody, and late.

The train pulls to a stop. While a few passengers depart and arrive, Peggy keeps her eyes on Angie while she watches the poor girl struggle. Once everybody is seated, and the train jolts to a start, Peggy wraps her arms around Angie, and kisses her cheek. Angie gasps, yet presses into her, and they embrace one another fiercely, hands caressing.

Peggy whispers in her ear, 'Let me come with you.'

Angie squeezes her eyes shut. 'I don't want him to hurt you.'

'I won't allow him to.'

'You can't. You gotta go home. I can't let you see him.'

 _Come away with me. Stay with me. Run away with me, like you wanted. Before. When everything was nice and okay. Before Underwood, before all of this rubbish._

Then she thinks about Dmitri, his angelic, blue eyes, looking down on her as if she were a creature from Hell. His fear reflecting his daughter's, but for an entirely different reason. Peggy squeezes her, burying her face into the crook of her neck. Angie only tightens their embrace, her knuckles white from holding onto Peggy so firmly.

Peggy can't ask for her. Peggy can't run away with her.

It's far too late.

SSR headquarters need her, anyway. There are questions be asked. Mysteries to be solved. Assassins to be killed.

Wars to be won.

'You are a good person, Angela.' Peggy retreats, only slightly, to look at her face. 'You may have shot a man, and you may have done something bad, but that doesn't make _you_ a bad person.' Angie reaches over and cups her face between her hands; Peggy is distracted for a moment, and her eyes briefly fall to her lips. 'You won't get into trouble. The SSR know it would have been out of self defence.'

'You're a good person, too.'

The train slows, nearing the next station.

'I must get off here,' Peggy states. Angie's heart falls, and her hands leave her face. 'Tell me now: do you want me to come with you?'

But what good would that do? What _can_ Peggy do? Her father would only turn her away, and Angie doesn't want to see that. She doesn't want to imagine what her father will do, what her father will say––

Angie shakes her head.

'Very well.' Peggy clearly disagrees, but doesn't object. She pulls on her gloves, claims her crutch. 'Good bye.'

The train stops. Passengers bustle in and out, and Angie stares at her while Peggy stands to her feet, finding her balance and moving forward.

Before she's gone, Angie follows her to the doors. Peggy steps onto the platform, turns to her, and there is Angie, sweet and tormented in her green dress, painted in blood and dirt and her beauty. Peggy's chest swoops, her heart turns in on itself, and her body burns for this woman. This girl. This lovely thing.

'Write to me?' She says, as the train jolts and slowly moves.

Peggy nods, 'Like last time?'

The train quickens, chugging, smoke billowing after it, and then Angie is gone, disappeared, out of sight and out of reach. Peggy watches the train depart, until it has vanished down the railway track and lost.

She chokes back a cry.

* * *

 _Dear Miss Martinelli,_

 _I hope that this letter is received by its desired recipient._

 _My letter shall be brief: our farewell was short, if not unpleasant (as are all farewells), but ours in particular deserved more than what was given. This must be redeemed._

 _There is still much to say, and much to ask._

 _If you are willing to make amends with me, then let us meet. If this be our last meeting, then I wholeheartedly understand. It is not my wish to discomfort you, to pressure you, or anything of the sort._

 _You are, first and foremost, my dearest friend. One whom I value, and one whom is very, very close to my heart. Please, allow me to stress this vocally, before you, in the safety of my own home._

 _My stay shall be temporary._

 _Thus, it would give me the greatest pleasure if you responded at your earliest convenience, with your answer._

 _Thank you. Thank you for saving me, in every sense._

 _Yours,_

 _Margaret Carter_

* * *

 _Dear Peggy,_

 _I received your letter cheerfully._

 _I'd be honoured to meet you, but, for now, I am uncertain when. Avoiding my father's eye is the least of my problems currently––I'm sure you understand._

 _Please, don't go anywhere without seeing me first._

 _I have a lot to tell you too._

 _With love,_

 _Angela Martinelli_


	9. 09

In Bloom  
 **9.**

* * *

At SSR headquarters, Peggy is welcomed back as an equal, but, due to the circumstances of such acceptance, she feels bitter. They know the amount of pain she's gone through, what Dottie had done to her, what happened to her at the hospital. Out of sympathy, out of their own wounded pride, they congratulate her for surviving, but their opinion of her has little weight in her true value.

The crutch remains at home. She has no intention to walk into SSR with a crutch––her gender is already used against her; the last thing she needs is to be taunted for her physical disability. So, throughout the day, she endures the agony bursting through her spine, the difficult to sit and not wince, maintaining a stoic composure when she's standing for long periods of time while colleagues talk and discuss over such _trivial_ matters.

Dottie Underwood's case is avoided; or, at least, hidden from Peggy. Eventually, Peggy grows tired of her own ignorance and approaches the Chief about the situation. Have they found any leads on Underwood? Who were the men who invaded the hospital? What happens next? She hardens her voice when he challenges her, but all words are lost when he mentions Captain America, referring to her as nothing more than his little heart throb.

The woman has proved her worth; they have no need for her.

Bed rest is what she requires, apparently. Bed rest, a blanket––because Peggy can't handle further commitments. She can barely handle paperwork, apparently. She is too weak, apparently. She does not even amount to one, single agent, apparently. She lost Dottie. The trail has gone cold. Now Howard Stark's weapon is in the hands of a dangerous criminal.

And Peggy is to blame.

She is dismissed, and he even suggests she go home early. Clearly her "womanly issues" are disturbing her. Peggy glares at him.

Leaving his office, gathering her documents, Peggy doesn't cry. She doesn't cry when she exits headquarters, a few colleagues staring after her with either puzzled or pitying expressions. She takes the bus home. Skims through her reports, studies Dottie's photographic identification, as if clues might suddenly jump out at her.

Stepping off the bus, she proceeds home, trying not to limp. She fails. Peggy doesn't know if she should be grateful that she's been dismissed early, because the moment she steps in through the door, Peggy bursts into tears.

The folders helplessly slip from her arms and she makes no effort to pick them up.

Sometimes, _sometimes_ , she just wants to _give up_. What's the point? Every day they scowl and laugh at her, even when she survives a fatal gunshot wound–– _multiple gunshot_ wounds, and even escapes a Japanese camp _alone_. But Peggy is used to that: her isolation. Wherever she goes, she's either bullied, shot or rejected.

'Rough day, Agent Carter?'

Peggy gasps in horror, tear-stained, and instantly reaches for her gun. She's too slow; her wounds hinder her. A thin, yet heavy woman pushes into her, crushing Peggy up against the wall. Peggy exclaims at the scorching pain in her back, and her intruder slaps her across the face.

'You'll alert your flatmates,' Dottie whispers, 'And this is a _private_ conversation, just between us two ladies.' She twitches a smile, 'My God,' a frown, and she reaches over to wipe away Peggy's stray tears. Peggy flinches at her touch, and growls at her. 'What has _happened_ to you? Has the great Miss Carter finally been pushed to her limits? Oh, what am I to do now?'

'What do you want?' Peggy snaps, eyes burning. 'You stole Stark's weapon; your job is complete.'

'Oh? You mean this?' Dottie holds up the tiny weapon. Peggy's heart skips a beat. 'I shouldn't worry…' Dottie lets the weapon slip between her fingers, and it clatters to the floor. 'It's yours if you want it so bad. I have no further use of it. Maybe you should walk back to your SSR agents, show them what you found, _all by yourself_. They shall be _panting_ over you in no time.'

Peggy grabs Dottie's wrist and twists it in an unnatural angle. Dottie yelps in surprise, and tries to kick her, but Peggy's rage wins and she knocks the blonde over. Straddling the back of her hips, Peggy pins Dottie down. 'What the Devil are you playing at, Underwood? My patience is _minimal_ , so, _please_ , speak up! _Now_ before I do what I should have done the moment I laid eyes on you.'

Laughter. Cackling laughter. Dottie is amused. 'Oh, you _are_ full of surprises, Agent Carter!' Then, her laughter disappears completely and she stiffens beneath Peggy. 'How many times do I have to kill you before you _die_?'

'A Russian man tried to murder me in my bed. You were mentioned, as was Stark's weapon.'

'Fascinating.'

'Who was he?'

'Oh? Oh, you poor thing.' Dottie giggles. 'Oh, you poor, _poor_ thing. You honestly believe I have anything to do with him? Those men who searched the hospital––ah, Pegs, _you_ weren't their prime target. You do know that, right?'

'What?'

'They were searching for _me_. They have been for over three decades now.' Dottie smirks. 'They wanted the weapon, too. So silly. Thinking I'd show up at your bedside to finish you off. Not my style. You wanna know what is my style, Peggy Carter?' In a flash, Peggy is thrown off Dottie's back, and their positions are switched. Dottie grins wildly. 'Better.'

Peggy struggles against her. If she weren't so severely wounded, she might have managed, but Dottie is unbeatable. Dottie licks her lips, and starts to laugh again when Peggy stops writhing.

'Giving up so soon, my darling?'

Peggy looks up at her, her expression blunt and cold. 'Three decades? Do you truly think I'd believe in such fabrication?'

'You'd be surprised. Maybe you should get to know me?'

'What do you want?'

'Mm.' Dottie straightens, happily spreading her hands down Peggy's stomach. 'A lotta things.'

The agent grabs Dottie's wrists, yanking them away. 'I'm allowing you _one minute_ to explain yourself.'

'Or what? You'll kill me?'

'Do not tempt me.'

'If you wanted to kill me, Agent Carter, you already would have.' Dottie pulls at Peggy's top button. 'You see, you're a rational woman, quite like myself. We are very similar, you and I.' Peggy rolls her eyes. 'You doubt me? How silly. Us women, we're _wolves_. We hunt alone, _use_ others to our advantage; we save others only to save ourselves. Isn't that right?'

'Get off of me.'

'Try harder,' Dottie inches nearer to her face, and she's beautiful, terrifying and mad. 'How's your ladylove been, recently?' Peggy's eyes widen, and she _dares_ Dottie to go on. But Dottie is a daring soul. 'The way you skip around her. So scared that Daddy will give her a nasty bruise––you know you only hurt her when you try to protect her? You've never been very good at taking what's yours. Until you lose them.'

'Don't you go near her––'

'Aha! And, there it is. I won't go near Angela. I have no interest in such a pathetic, little girl. She _bores_ me. But you? _Oh_ , Peggy.' Dottie cracks an impish grin. 'The things I could do to you.' Her eyelids close slightly, and her smile drops. 'The things we could do to each other.'

Peggy is conscious of Dottie's hands at her waist, dangerously approaching her breasts. She doesn't attempt at beating her away; Dottie has too much strength over her. 'What is it that you want?'

'I want Howard Stark.'

'Ha!' It is Peggy's turn to laugh. 'And what use would he be to you?'

'His weapon did not succeed.'

'You used it?!'

'Oh, don't be ridiculous, Peggy. Of _course_ I did. Mister Stark is all talk, no brains. His weapon did not work. You should do your homework, otherwise you wouldn't have wasted a trip.'

'Apparently, you should do your homework as well.'

Dottie eyes her hungrily. 'I already do.'

Peggy frowns. 'Why Howard? If you want an improved weapon from him, then don't hold your breath. He will be unwilling to cooperate with you, especially after that stunt you pulled. It's over, Underwood. Finished.'

'You're mistaken.' Dottie's expression has softened a considerable amount. Suddenly, she appears normal. Or, at least, she _would_ appear normal if she wasn't straddling Peggy's hips. 'If you wish to consider me your enemy, Peggy, then so be it, but do not blame me for your sensitivity.'

'I have no desire to work with the likes of you _ever_ again.'

'Hm. Stubborn, but stupid.' Dottie cocks a brow. 'Do you want to win the war, or don't you? We both share a common enemy. Have you heard of the saying, Peggy?' She smiles crookedly. 'An enemy of my enemy is my friend? You might want to put that into practice.' Her face hardens. 'I want Germany to run into the dust. I want Germany to _burn_ , as you do.'

Peggy says nothing.

Dottie pauses, studying her, before retreating her hands from Peggy's body. 'Think about it.' She's about to stand and release Peggy from her cage, but stops herself, and adds, 'Chin up, Carter. No use crying over spilt milk. Let the men think they're in charge, and us women will continue with the real work. That's how we've always got things _done_.'

Finally she rises, but does not help Peggy stand. Peggy wouldn't accept her assistance anyway. Sitting upright, Peggy watches Dottie approach the door, heels _clack, clack, clack_ ing. She slides aside a few of her documents, wraps her coat tighter around herself, elegant and powerful.

Dottie looks at Peggy over her shoulder. 'Call me.'

A small slip of card escapes her fingertips, and Peggy watches it flutter to the floor. Dottie is gone by the time Peggy looks up.

She exhales slowly, relieved and shaking all over.

The places where Dottie touched her singe. Peggy swallows, runs her hands through her hair, before hugging her knees. She can't quite go over everything that happened just yet. She needs a moment. Peggy needs a moment to collect herself, to _calm_ ; she can hear her heartbeat, furious and heavy in her chest, she's afraid it may rip open her ribcage.

Minutes pass.

Peggy manages to find her feet. She walks over to the card, passed Howard's useless weapon. She flips the card over.

Three digits stare at her, written in black ink.

Closing a fist around the card, Peggy shoves it into her jacket pocket.

Any evidence of Dottie's intrusion is absent.

* * *

'Hey, sugar. You happy to close shop?' Answering is unnecessary. Before Angie has the opportunity to object, her colleague places a set of keys before her and leaves the diner in a hurry.

Angie pouts at her retreating figure. Rolling her eyes, she finishes wiping the last table, snatches the keys, and does as she's told. She clears away any remaining items, the till, and once she's finished, another hour has gone by. Angie pulls on her coat, flicks off the first light.

 _Ding_.

'We're closed!' Angie calls, caring very little for her rude tone.

To her annoyance, this late customer ignores her, and she can hear him or her approach the front of the diner. Angie places the last mug into the cupboard, turns on her heel, ready to dismiss the idiot.

She widens her eyes.

This customer is not a customer.

Peggy tries to smile, but she's not sure if it appears sincere. Angie softens her expression, but doesn't speak or move towards her. They remain apart, the bar barricading them from one another. Angie doesn't need to ask about Peggy's health; she can tell something is wrong, but this something could be multiple somethings, and she's not keen on knowing.

Not anymore.

Angie gulps, and rushes to fasten her coat. 'You shouldn't be 'round me.'

'I had to see you.'

'Please go away.'

'Angie,' Peggy is stern, and Angie freezes. 'Don't talk to me like that.'

'I'm closin' shop,' Angie's voice peaks. She fights the urge to cry, 'I was gonna write to you when we would meet.'

'I couldn't wait.'

'That ain't my problem, Peggy.'

How she speaks to her––so _chillingly_. Christ, Angie has never talked to her in this manner. Peggy is hurt. Deeply hurt, and she watches helplessly as Angie tries to avoid her, walking to the door. Peggy grabs her wrist, and she doesn't mean to hurt her, but Angie struggles, and Peggy is so shocked by her response, she only clings harder.

Angie looks at her then, pained and angry. She doesn't fight. 'Don't you know what could happen?' Angie's anger spikes. She's crying. _For God's sake!_ Why does she cry so easily? Why does she always have to cry in front of Peggy? She's _sick of crying_. Sick of losing herself. 'I don't wanna be taken away!'

There is a bruise, dark and ugly at her collar.

Another, hidden beneath Peggy's hand. Peggy instantly lets go of her, as if she's been burnt.

'Who will take you away?'

'Stop it.' Angie rubs her sore wrist, tears pooling her eyes.

' _Who_ will take you away?'

Angie opens her mouth to retort, but she's stopped when she meets her gaze. The way Peggy looks at her, watches her––so _softly_ , her entire face painted with her emotions, _every single emotion ripping through her_. All Angie sees is love; love in its multiple forms, and she's never been looked at like this, not by her father, not by Henry––nobody.

 _Nobody looks at her the way Peggy looks at her._

She can't tell Peggy about Father Tomas, or the fact Dmitri contacted him the moment Angie returned home that day. That day when she foolishly saved Peggy's life, when she put her heart before her mind, and ran straight into a spray of bullets. For her. All for her.

She can't tell Peggy anything.

Not about what was said to her.

One more mistake, _one more of your episodes_ , then you are _gone_.

'Never––Never mind…' Angie says weakly. She locks with Peggy's eyes for a moment, and then she turns and heads for the door. Peggy has no choice but to follow, and she's guided out. 'I wanna talk,' Angie stutters, hands trembling as she locks the entrance to the diner. 'But, I don't wanna talk right now.'

'Angie, I have much to inform you about.'

She turns to her, tears freezing in the chilly air. 'Like what?'

Peggy is baffled. She had an entire speech ready, an essay of words, but her mind has gone blank, and she can barely stand. She looks at her, desperate for mercy, but Angie has none left to give. If she doesn't return home soon, she'll be in trouble, and the _terror_ which shudders her bones at the thought of him looming over her, belt in hand, raised, ready––

The dog tags flash in her mind, and, for some reason, Angie is tempted to flee.

She shakes her head in response to Peggy's silence.

'I told ya to go home.' Angie walks on ahead, but is conscious of Peggy hesitating, and then following a few steps behind. Her throat narrows, 'Go home!'

'I need to talk to you.'

'You got nothin' left to say!'

Angie turns a corner, and slows her pace as she enters an alleyway, the brick cold around her, the ground hard beneath her shoes.

'You said in your letter that you'd listen to me.'

Finally she stops, heaving a heavy, drained sigh. Angie presses a hand to the wall in order to balance herself. Peggy has already ceased walking, with no intention to follow her further. If Angie doesn't want her, doesn't want anything to do with her, then she will not force anything.

Even if Angie's dismissal will break her heart.

'I––' She turns to Peggy, desperate and pleading. 'I told ya everythin'. You know how I feel. Stop tauntin' me, Pegs, and just come out with it.'

Their fragility is so _vulnerable_. With the lightest brush, they'd fall into shattering pieces, and they're both hanging onto whatever ounce of strength is left in them. Maybe it would be best to walk away. Walk away and just _forget_. They cannot be––society, everybody around them, forbids that.

Even death, it seems.

Peggy comes into clear view when she enters the alleyway, stopping before Angie, inches apart. She looks down at her, bags under her eyes, cheeks blemished; her appearance such a huge contrast to when they first met, and Angie doesn't know what to think.

Yet it is Peggy's eyes which remain the same: still full of their own enigma, blanketed in a wave of warmth, something tranquil and _honest_. Peggy blinks slowly, raises her brows, lost for words. Why is she here?

Stupid, stupid, stupid girl.

Go home.

Go back home.

Peggy shifts her weight onto her right foot, fiddling with her sleeve.

There isn't a home to go back to.

She is _looking_ at home, and home is looking at her, and she doesn't really want to walk away just yet.

A second passes.

Another.

Peggy downcasts her gaze, ruined. She doesn't know what to say; she's too tired, too traumatised, too _broken_. Angie's engagement ring winks in the night, and Peggy's heart tremors.

They look at each other.

And then Angie's back slams into the wall, and they're kissing ferociously, hands pulling and grabbing and squeezing. Angie moans into her mouth, sliding up the wall, forming tight fists in her hair, pushing Peggy onto her. They tangle themselves, kisses hot, wet and wanton.

Breaths quick and heated across Peggy's skin, Angie touches what she can of her, fingers eventually digging into Peggy's sides. They continue to kiss each other with such wild passion and immodesty, even when Angie drags Peggy closer still, Peggy's hands on her hips, thighs, raising the hem of her skirt.

Angie exclaims when she's lifted off her feet, tightly secured in Peggy's hold. The younger woman wraps her arms around Peggy's neck, her shoulders; legs balanced around her waist. She kisses Peggy's face, her mouth, whatever is in reach, skirt bunching up at her hips––'I need you,' she whispers, lips moving over hers, 'I need you, I need you––'

They both moan, stiffening together when Peggy's fingers lightly dance across her entrance. Marking her. Angie hisses between her teeth, knocking her head back. A pause, a delicate pause is shared, and they take each other in, faces touching. Angie's lips are parted, her eyes gentle, fingertips caressing Peggy's cheek when they lean in for another kiss.

Quiet.

Their consent a brief exchange.

Peggy rests on Angie's shoulder, constrained against her, and she makes love to her softly, slowly. Angie silences herself with kisses; little, urgent whispers, more kisses, and when she comes, she presses her mouth against Peggy's jacket, scrunches her eyes shut, her grip digging into the material.

One of them exhales. Angie turns her head to capture Peggy's lips with her own.

They remain pressed to one another while Peggy helps Angie find her balance. Peggy kisses her, her hands busy smoothing down Angie's skirt, before resting into Angie against the wall. They kiss for what seems like hours, days, weeks, and they kiss until their lips sting and their lungs ache.

'I want to stay with you.'

Angie smiles sadly, kisses her cheek.

'Then stay.'


	10. 10

In Bloom  
 **10.**

* * *

It is with one piece at a time. She tells her the truth, and everything that _is_ the truth: from the day she joined the army, merely a child, to her first mission when she was only eighteen years old. The bullet wounds in her shoulder. Howard Stark, and his great experiment. Steven Rogers, his finest masterpiece.

The emergence of _Hydra_ and their alleged extinction.

All the gaps are filled, and what's left is the puzzlement of Dottie's intentions, the useless weapon, where Howard is now, and what happens next.

There's a sort of irony, bringing Angie into the safety of her home, in which Dottie had intruded only hours before. Regardless, she would rather have Angie within reach than within reach of her father. Maybe it's all starting to make a little sense to Peggy as well: although her presence is dangerous, she'd rather be dangerous and holding her hand, than not holding Angie at all.

She's starting to wonder, too, if Dottie Underwood is as evil as she seems.

And she's starting to wonder, too, if such a name like Dorothy Underwood exists. If her name is a lie.

Would Howard have any clues?

After all, Dottie used him. They had slept together, been together like a couple; surely, Dottie must have shared him a little information on the real her. Or, is Peggy underestimating Dottie's deceitful abilities?

The card with the three numbers is still in Peggy's pocket.

Its corner digs into her hip when Angie finally silences their conversation with a series of kisses. Now that they have adjusted to each other's company, returned to what they once were, there is a lack of panic. Certain that Peggy is staying this time, Angie kisses her softly, as if each second of their intimacy counts.

She doesn't mention her father, her fiancé, and, frankly, she doesn't need to.

Because they're reminded of it all, what's really happening, when the engagement ring winks up at Peggy in the night. Grinning and frowning and ashamed.

When she was a little girl, she was taught that sex is something bad. Something which must be proceeded with if only absolutely necessary. Most importantly, sex out of wedlock is sinful, sex out of wedlock is wrong.

Sex with a woman, _an engaged woman_ , on the other hand––Peggy was never taught about that.

And the way they wrap themselves up in white sheets, naked and gasping, touching and kissing and moaning. Peggy can't think about the lessons she was taught, but ever since she wrote down her name, pledged herself to help in the war effort, she was never one of those good, demure girls.

Peggy wakes up with a start.

It's a little past four in the morning, and she's wide awake. Peggy swallows, and brings her knees to her chest, hugging them. The sheet around her body does little to shield off the cold air. She starts to think, and that's her first mistake. She thinks about Angie's father, what he'll do when his daughter returns. She thinks about Dottie, what she's planning on next. She thinks about Angie, who is sleeping peacefully beside her. And then, bizarrely, she thinks about Steve and it falls apart.

What would he do…?

What would he do if he were in this situation? With his big heart, generous smiles and bright eyes. Would he, gently, have turned Angie away? Would he have literally swept her off her feet as soon as he possibly could? Would he have eloped with her, even, throwing aside his sapphire robes?

Steve lived to love, and, at the end of the day, it is family which matters to him.

Her throat narrows. He never asked to be Captain America, he never asked for that life, and it eventually killed him.

What would _she_ have done, if Captain America survived?

Peggy shudders. She raises the sheet to her shoulders, and lies beside Angie, wrapping her arms around her waist. The woman stirs a little in her embrace, and drowsily mumbles something.

There's a wait, and Peggy's voice is so quiet, it's a miracle Angie hears.

'I love you.'

A little smile; almost sad. 'I love you too.' Angie shuffles a little so her back is pressed to Peggy's chest, aware that Peggy has tensed from her response.

Knowing that she's in love is one thing, but knowing that her love is reciprocated is another.

And it is _that_ which frightens her.

* * *

The next time Peggy awakens, she can smell coffee. Her senses snap, and she's upright. Recognises the scent. The empty space beside her. The engagement ring forgotten about on the nightstand. Peggy is cautious of it at first, as if the gem might shoot her if she dared near it.

She reaches over, takes the ring, and studies it in her palm.

The man who bought this for Angie must be serious. The jewel is real, expensive, and the type of gift women dream of receiving from their love. The type of gift Peggy would never be able to offer.

When she admires the ring, she is not jealous, nor angry. She is not in competition with this man. She knows her worth; she knows, also, that she is Angie's first and _only_ choice. But the ring is heavy, it feels like a tonne, weighing down on her hand, as if punishing her.

She hates the ring. Hates how beautiful and perfect it is.

Hates the promise for happiness that it carries.

The floorboard creaks when Angie approaches the bedroom, carrying a tray of two mugs of coffee. She's wearing her diner uniform, barefoot, hair in need of a comb. Her cheeks are flushed, makeup washed away, and she looks so angelic and _young_. Peggy closes her hand around the ring.

Angie notices, but says nothing. She comes over, a playful skip in her step, and places the tray and Peggy's feet.

'You are a dear,' Peggy says, 'You should have woken me.'

'I didn't wanna. You're too cute when you sleep.'

'You are a negative influence.'

'And you're any better?' Angie leans over and kisses her. She lingers there for a moment, 'I wish I could do this everyday.'

Peggy isn't used to such flatteries, and snorts ungracefully. 'I'd hate for you to get bored of me.'

'Y'shouldn't lie, English.'

Angie sits and passes Peggy her coffee. This forces Peggy to place the ring aside, and when it _clatters_ onto her nightstand, Angie doesn't look at it. Not once. Peggy takes her mug, but doesn't drink. She studies Angie for a brief second, and then says, 'You're not wearing your ring anymore.'

'No,' Angie says, dipping her teaspoon into the dark liquid. 'I guess… I guess I had no need for it.'

Peggy places her coffee aside. Angie's eyes follow her every movement. 'What is his name again?'

'His name's Henry. He's nice, y'know? He deserves better….'

'Are you in love with him?'

The teaspoon hits the mug. Angie is hurt she asked that, but she understands why. Pain passes her expression and she abandons her coffee. Angie crawls over to where Peggy sits, straddling her lap and kisses her on the mouth. 'I've only ever loved you, English, and I think I'll only always love you.'

'Oh, you poor thing.'

'Stop jokin' around!' Angie bats her playfully. 'I'm serious.'

Peggy smiles faintly. She kisses her. 'I suppose I am too.'

Angie tuts, grabs Peggy's face between her hands and kisses her fiercely. Her hands are always soft and warm on her bare flesh, grazing her hundreds of battle scars, and she kisses her with such delight and passion. It's like before, but different. Now, it is certain.

There is a sense of commitment between them.

And Peggy realises, she is willing to fight for it this time. Fight for them.

Bite the bullet.

Like she should have done long ago.

They hear three knocks at the door, and Angie reluctantly slides off Peggy's lap. Peggy is cautious when she steps out of bed, throws on her gown. Angie watches while Peggy opens her nightstand drawer and retrieves a gun. The atmosphere between them stiffens, and Angie looks at her with wide eyes.

Maybe it's precaution. Peggy isn't entirely sure who would be knocking on her door.

After all, she doesn't have visitors.

Despite her suspicion, Peggy is calm while she leaves the bedroom and approaches the front door. It's almost funny, a startling contrast, in the fact she dons a robe, like any other respectable woman, yet carries a weapon. Something that kills people.

Peggy looks through the peep-hole. Angie holds her breath.

A long sigh escapes Peggy's lips, and she slumps her shoulders. 'Not him,' she whispers, and opens the door.

Angie is beyond relieved that their visitor is Howard Stark.

'Oh!' Howard exclaims, looking between Peggy and Angie. He grins at Peggy's state of dress. 'I hope I wasn't interrupting––'

'I'm pleased you came.'

'As am I.'

'Howard!' Peggy's gun rests at her side. 'I had a visit from our dear friend, Dottie, last night.'

The colour in his face drains and he nods. ' _That_ is why I came here.'

'How kind of you.' She closes the door, and takes him by the wrist. 'Tell me everything you know.'

'I don't know much, but when Angie and I came to rescue you at the hospital––you're welcome, by the way––I overheard a conversation. There was mention of her, but they referred to her by a different name.'

'What name?'

'It began with Y.' He shrugs. 'All I know is that the men who tried to kill you, in fact… wanted to kill her.' Angie's face contorts in puzzlement. 'They thought Dottie might have tried to finish you off in the hospital, which is why they wasted their time in questioning you.'

'A name beginning with Y?' Peggy murmurs.

'Any ideas?'

'None.'

'It was a Russian name, if that helps. Yel––something or other. I can't pronounce it either way.'

'Yelena Bolova?' Howard blinks, perplexed, and both he and Peggy look over to Angie. She's startled by their response and swallows. 'What?'

'That's it!' Howard exclaims. 'That's the name. Where did you hear it?'

'I––' She shrugs. 'Theatre. I auditioned for a role in a Shakespeare play, and there was a gal there, also auditioning for the same role. It's crazy 'cos I never even saw her audition! We spoke a bit and that was that.'

'What did she look like?' Peggy's voice has stiffened, blunt, and Angie imagines this is how she speaks during an interrogation. Her gaze is firm, and there's a severe lack of emotion. Yet, for Angie, there's a hint of gentility.

'Red hair. Very dark red hair, pale complexion. I dunno, Pegs, I barely remember. Her English was real poor. I remember that.'

'You've seen Dottie before, haven't you?'

'Couple a'times.'

'Do the two women share any resemblances?'

'None!' Angie laughs in disbelief. 'I know you'd expect it to be so, but no. They don't look alike, otherwise I woulda said something.'

'She's a Soviet assassin, which means she has been trained to disguise her appearance. I do that myself frequently when out on missions. I have no doubt in my mind that the woman you spoke to during your audition was Dottie Underwood. After all, you said she never had her audition. Only spoke to you. Although, there are flaws in my conclusion. Why would she target you in the first place?'

'Why else?' Howard shrugs. 'You and Angie are, y'know, not the most _subtle_.'

'I beg your pardon, but I very much object to that.'

'Says you, who's still dressed in a robe.'

'Be grateful for my decency. You don't have any. Remember the times I walked in on and you and some _hussy_ going at it like––'

'All right, _all right_!' Howard retorts, 'Regardless, it is common for assassins to target loved ones. Clearly Dottie or Yeleno or Yel––what's-her-name had that idea in mind when she spoke to Angie.'

'She was seeking your weapon, which failed, by the way. Dottie paid me a visit last night, and left me her contact details. She wants to work side-by-side with me; help towards the war effort.'

'What's the catch?'

'She wants you. She wants you to create a better weapon for her.'

'Hm! I like the way she thinks.'

'You can't possibly be considering her proposal?'

'If my weapon failed, then it needs to be improved upon. I'd like to talk to her. If she is a possible ally, I don't think we have anything to lose.'

Neither Howard or Peggy are aware that Angie is currently seething. She sharply interjects, 'Lest you forget that she nearly killed Peggy!' Howard goes red in the face at her retort. 'It's men like _you_ I can't stand! _Weak_ when ya see a pretty gal. I don't want her going anywhere near Peggy again.'

'I know,' Howard says softly, 'I haven't forgotten what she did.'

'She isn't an ally, and she will never be an ally, Howard. I thought you would have learned your lesson by now,' Peggy replies, stepping over towards Angie in order to calm her down. She rests a hand on her shoulder and squeezes affectionately. 'Nevertheless, that doesn't mean I'm unwilling to work with her again. If she tries to kill me once more, if there is the _slightest_ implication that she might turn her sword on me, I will end her life. I won't hold back again.'

'I doubt she will either,' Howard breathes. 'What does she want?'

'To win. Germany's real enemy is Russia, and Dottie has requested our assistance.'

'So, what will you do?'

'I'll contact her. That's all for now.'

Howard nods. 'Thanks. If there is anything I can do to help…'

'There is one thing.' Peggy's hand slips from Angie's shoulder. 'I need a home. Somewhere private, away from civilisation. A place where I can't be discovered. Are you willing to lend me a property which matches my description?'

'Not really. Although, I do have a small cottage in Scotland. In the high lands. When would you like to move in?'

'As soon as possible.'

'I can contact one of my, uh, _employees_. His name is Mister Jarvis. He's a good man. He can transport you over there immediately.'

'Angie is coming with me.'

'I'm sorry?'

'You heard me,' Peggy twitches a smile. 'This home is for her. For the time being, anyway.' She ignores Angie's puzzled expression, and adds, 'I would like to meet Mister Jarvis first, however. If he impresses me, I'd like to keep him too.'

'Well, uh, he's not exactly transferrable.'

'I don't care, Howard. Invite him round later this afternoon. In the meantime, I'll try and find out more about this Yelena character.' She cocks a brow. 'If there's nothing else, you can go.'

* * *

There is nothing else, and Howard leaves with reluctance and a sense of remorse. The moment the door closes, Angie doesn't waste a second in asking about the cottage in Scotland. But the answer is pretty obvious. They both know why Peggy is stealing her away.

'I can't just _vanish_ ,' Angie breathes shakily, because, despite what she said, she imagines that: vanishing. Vanishing to England, with Peggy by her side. No more father, no more priest, no more fiancé, no more diner. She doesn't know whether to vomit or jump in joy. She doesn't know what she wants.

Peggy places her gun aside and comes over to wrap Angie up in her arms. 'Why not? I do it all the time, dear.'

Angie clings onto her. 'Don't say that.'

'You're trembling.' Peggy pulls back a little, softens her expression. 'Talk to me. What's wrong?'

'I don't––' She exhales, 'Pegs, I don't want you and Iowa becomin' best buds again.'

'Angie, that should be the least of your concerns. I'm perfectly aware of what Dottie can do, but I've survived her so many times. I think it has been established between us that we can't kill each other. As much as it would please me to.'

Pulling at her collar, Angie whispers. 'You can't make me run away when you're not comin' too.'

'I _will_ be escorting you. Darling, I want you safe. You are not safe _here_. Please, I need you to have faith in me.'

'I don't wanna be some damsel who waits for you to come home.'

Peggy smiles sadly. 'For now, you may have to be. Until the war is over. You must understand I can't––exactly _walk away_. When I joined, it wasn't a game to me. I didn't join for the thrill of it all, like most boys did. I joined because it was the right thing to do. I hate Germany––' Her upper lip twitches, '––and I don't have a choice: I have to keep fighting, you must see that. I'm not the type to walk away.'

'I know,' Angie grumbles, '… doesn't change my mind, though.'

'Hm. You always were the stubborn one.'

'Peggy? Wait a moment.'

Raising a brow, Peggy does as she's told and watches Angie escape into the bedroom, and then reappear again. Her left hand is clenched. When she comes over, she presses so close to Peggy, there are barely any gaps between them. Her breath tickles Peggy's nose as she holds Peggy's hand, and places something light and ever so delicate in her palm.

'You gotta promise you won't die. That's all I ask.'

Peggy smiles at the ring, then back at Angie. 'That's a promise.'

'Then make it one,' Angie replies sternly. She retrieves the ring one last time, and slips it effortlessly onto Peggy's fourth finger. 'I'm willin' to lose my family––whatever little it is––over you, so you can't die. You're not allowed to die. You're all I've got now… _You're_ my family, and I need you to know that.'

'Angie, I _will_ come home to you.'

They pull each other into a searing kiss, and their promise is sealed; their own vow.

* * *

She dials the three numbers, and waits. There isn't a ring. Just a long, silent pause, until, suddenly, a charming, sweet voice is heard on the other end.

Dottie smiles in her words.

' _You finally called. I've missed you, did you know?_ '

'I'm willing to offer you some cooperation.'

' _Ah_.'

'On one condition: you leave my significant others out of this. Everything is now between you and I. Do I need to give you time to think?'

Dottie chuckles. ' _Oh, goodness no, Peggy. I thought I stressed that you are the only girl in the world who matters to me. Do I have Howard?_ '

'You can discuss matters with him, as long as I am present. In fact, I must be present in everything it is that you do. Are we clear?'

Her response, cheerful and chilling, leaves Peggy haunted.

' _Crystal._ '

* * *

 **END OF PART II.**

* * *

 **author's note** : I am very apologetic for my delay in updating this story! I honestly was not expecting the second part to come to an end either, but, hey, I'm totally okay with that. Thank you so much for reading. As always, your support overwhelms me, and I'm just so unbelievably grateful to have such an enthusiastic audience!

I also want to add that my third (and final) year at University is looming close. Now, considering I have part-time work, my degree, and other commitments, my updates will be much slower than usual and irregular. However, none of my Peggy/Angie stories will be abandoned.

Until next time!


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